


Dean's not a sissy

by Links6



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Appendicitis, Case Fic, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, I've got a Bachelor's degree in sick fics, Injured Dean Winchester, Medicine, More like using pain killers to hide the fact that he should be in hospital, Out of Character, Pain, Protective Sam Winchester, SO MUCH FLUFF, Stubborn Dean, but fluff, chronic appendicitis, hunting while injured, hunting while sick, no beta we die like men, not geographically accurate btw, questionable medical practices and advice, so much pain tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 26,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23578813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links6/pseuds/Links6
Summary: Because appendicitis isn't for sissies, is it? Let's not forget how fun it would be to hunt while you're sick... good thing Sam's more observant than he looks...
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	1. Dean's not a sissy

**Author's Note:**

> Dean's got chronic appendicitis... but it's definitely not 100% medically accurate, because it's fanfiction and I wanted drama *evil cackle*

Dean isn't a sissy.

Because sissy's are afraid of pain and don't hunt fugly poltergeists.

No, not a sissy. But the pain in his side is driving him up a wall.

He takes his thumb and forefinger and measures the McBurney's Point again. It's between the top of the hipbone and the navel, right? It's the fourth time he's measured it tonight.

Yep. It's right there in the middle. Still… could be anything, right? It doesn't _have_ to be what all his instincts are yelling at him it is.

But, of course, he doesn't have a fever and he doesn't feel nauseous. No. Because _that_ little bugger comes with both by the bucket-load. So, it couldn't be _that._ It could be a hernia, or a fractured hip bone or a pulled ligament…. Yeah. That's it. It's one of those. Besides, he's pretty sure, that he _isn't_ a dumbass. Dumbasses wouldn't know when it's serious. And this isn't serious. No. Not a sissy and not a dumbass either. But this wrenching pain is like a spanner to his internals and he's pretty sure that _this is not normal._

And, let's face it, Winchesters _excel_ at _not normal. So,_ figuring this little bitch out will be a cinch.

That's why, when he climbs into the shower and turns up the heat of the spray -because he's so damned cold all the time- he also decides that Sam doesn't have to know.

He'll figure this out, fix it, then be done with it. Because he's Dean Winchester, dammit.

And he's neither a sissy nor a dumbass, but he's still the Big Brother of Sammy Winchester.

The spray is never as hot as he hopes it to be in a motel, but it's still a notch above lukewarm, so he's good. It's bugging him that the damn fog the water's creating is _way_ too much for the temperature of the liquid gold, but he ignores it and stands in the shower for another ten minutes before shutting it off.

He's sure Sam won't appreciate him using the entire motel's hot water supply, especially when Puppy needs a shower as well.

Halfway into his long black sweatpants Sam's knocking on the door, "Uhh… Dean, are you okay in there?"

"Fine, princess, and I didn't use up all the hot water either," Dean answers the coming question.

"What? _No_. UGH – Can I come in?"

"Buy me a drink first, you cheapo!" Dean jokes, but finishes up with his pants before he reaches forward and opens the door anyway.

Sam, hand in front of his eyes, cautiously moves his hand to be sure Dean _is, in fact,_ decent before gaping at the bathroom, "Holy shi-" he looks around then looks worriedly back at Dean, "Dude, are you sick or something?". Sam steps sideways to miss most of the billowing mist coming from the bathroom.

The older brother starts but tries to smile as convincingly as possible, "Of course not, why?"

"It's like a hundred and eighty twenty degrees in here!" Sam puffs and opens one of the bathroom windows, he sticks his head out and breathes in some of the slightly cooler night air. He takes in a big gulp of the refreshing coolness before returning to the misty bathroom.

Dean grins at Sam's inability to 'take the heat' in both senses of the line.

Sam just scoffs and fans his t-shirt with short breaths as he exits the bathroom, feeling a bit dizzy from the temperature and humidity. Dean follows, but he kinda wishes he was still in the bathroom, somehow the heat just made him feel better.

Sun Rock Inn it was called. Not so much an inn as a stay-and-go, if you ask any of the guests. There were only three rooms left at this place. Two rooms, both with a King-size bed and a kitchenette. That OR the lone three-single-bed room. The latter option was the best. All-in-all, not too bad. The rooms were clean and the bedding was actually pretty good, considering the price. But the walls were thin and the music and TV's were too loud.

Yesterday when they were just routinely cleaning their gear, and Dean's Taurus' slide snapped back into play, they could hear someone from the room next to them say, "Did you hear that? … It almost sounded like a gun!"

Of course, Dean's short-tempered instinct was to show the woman _exactly_ how right she was, but Sam stopped him. Sam also asked him what was wrong, because he seemed to be in a bad mood all week. But, Dean's not interested in a soap-filled afternoon with shared tears and hugs, so he just takes it upon himself to get them some chow from one of the restaurants across town. Yes, _across_ town, and he's going to _walk_ too. 'cause he's pretty sure it'll take _that_ long for him to get himself in order.

It was well past six when he got back, but the break didn't improve his mood. In fact, it made it worse. He mutters one string of X-rated curses from one end of the room to the other, only briefly pausing between bites of his Chicken-a-la-something to yell at the neighbours to shut up.

Still, Dean's a reasonable guy. It takes a lot for him to freak – usually. At least, it takes a lot of 'normal BS' to get him to freak. But, for the last few months he's been like this. On and off.

Now, from an outside perspective: Sam's got the brains in the family, Dean's sure. Sam went to Stanford, got a full-ride. He's like Pentium six-thousand when it comes to numbers and facts. But, he doesn't have the people skills or observance – Dean's not sure yet which one- to figure out that there was something wrong with his brother. Or, maybe he did, but he wants to give Dean his space. Either way, both of them know that those couple of years at college caused a canyon of misinterpretation between them.

Before Sam left, Dean knew the difference between a Sammy- playful shoulder nudge and a Sammy- power shove; a wink to tell him to go with the lie or a wink to start an argument; a nod of 'yes' I understand or a nod of 'I don't know what you're saying, but sure I'll play along'. But now? It's a bit of trail-and-error between them.

Of course, this is just basic stuff. Their hunting affirmations and codes never changed, at least that was one aspect that stayed the same. They still were in perfect sync when they were hunting. It's one of the few times he wishes he and Sam was closer, and not just a pair of Gemini hunters.

Still, it's now ten at night and both of them are sprawled out on their separate beds, quite content to just talk about nothing and everything. It's getting colder outside as winter sets in, but the rainy season hasn't started yet. They unanimously decided to pick up another hunt as soon as it comes their way… but they're also taking a break after the whole Dean-just-got-a-heart-attack-then-got-healed-by-the-Grim-Reaper gig.

Their gear was arranged on the third empty bed next to Dean's, all ready to bug-out within thirty seconds if need be. They're not yet comfortable where the cops are concerned, unfortunately. Especially cops with links to federal agents.

"So, have you seen Solid State yet?" Sam asks, absently highlighting a segment in the book about werewolves he's currently reading.

"Is that a XXX flick, or what?" Dean says and grins when Sam's red face shoots up, "Nope."

" _Ugh, jerk_... It's about these two guys who-" Sam starts but Dean's intentional yawn cuts him off, "Can I finish?"

"Be my guest," Dean says and lazily pages through the Top Gear mag he 'borrowed' from the gas station.

"Thank you…. So! They're two thieves who break into the Swiss bank-", Sam starts again, but Dean's yawn cuts him off once more, "DEAN!"

"Sorry, sorry…" Dean chuckles and waves his hand dismissively. But, that small chuckle sent a stab of pain down his right leg and right up into his right shoulder. He sits up immediately and draws up his right leg to stop the pain. He keeps up the chortle until the pain dies down, then finally looks over at Sam and waggles his eyebrows, "You're so easy to irritate!"

He allows Sam to fill him in, one by one, all the movies he's missed over the past few years… how much cooler Rock music has gotten… how much the Internet has improved, as well as how Dean should _definitely_ consider getting a myspace account, or at least, an email account. Halfway through the proclivities of college soccer, Sam drifted off.

Dean doesn't really mind.

What does bother him though, is no matter how much water he drinks, it doesn't seem to be affecting his fever. He read once that 'drowning' a fever is supposed to be the best way to lower it. For a second the thought crosses his mind that _literally_ drowning is what they meant… but he's not that desperate.

Sometime after three Dean's awake again. He can tell that he's picked up a bug 'cause he's sporting a good fever, at least, by the looks of his soaked tee. After a detour to the head he stops by his duffle. He strips off his sweaty navy tee and dresses in a Sum41-tee. _Rock on._ A gift from Emilee from Washington. Sweet girl. Legs for days. Always loved art museums more than rock concerts. What a deal-breaker.

He heads back to bed and just when he sits down his phone's vibrating, the caller ID tells him that Bobby's on the line. Weird. First time in…. how long? "Hey, Bobby?"

"Dean, good to hear your voice son. How're you doing?" Bobby asks. He's probably one of the few who actually _mean it_ when he asks that.

"Pretty good. Sam's took a while to realise I won't just drop dead by my own accord," Dean jokes and slowly lowers himself down on the bed, making sure to keep his right leg hoisted into his chest."So, what's with the late night call, Bobby?"

"I wish I could say 'nothing' just once…" Bobby's tired voice replies.

"That doesn't sound promising," Dean says and looks over to see if Sam's awaking up from their conversation. But, Sam's knocked out like a zombie. Good. Dean's not looking forward to shuffling anywhere anytime soon.

"You're telling me," Bobby says and stifles a yawn away from the receiver for a moment, "… Alright, you boys are _where_ right now?"

"Sun Rock Inn," Dean says and grips his side when another stitch suddenly grabs hold of him.

"Where the hell is that?" Bobby wonders out loud, but when Dean doesn't answer right away, he asks if Dean's okay.

It's not often that Dean doesn't appreciate Bobby's attention or concern. Bobby's kind of like, in a manner of speaking, the winner of the World's Greatest Dad. If Dean had a say in it, he'd probably have chosen Bobby as his caretaker instead of Pastor Jim. But, of course, if he didn't have John or Pastor Jim, he's never had met _or_ appreciated Bobby as much as he does now.

"Somewhere between limbo and Nowhere's Diner," Dean mumbles and rubs his brow tiredly.

"-what?"

"Between Springfield and Boston, Massachusetts …" Dean says, feeling a bit agitated at Bobby's insistence. Does it _really_ matter where they were? They'd drive to wherever Bobby would send them _anyway._

"I'm not even going to try and find out what crawled up your ass," Bobby growls back and Dean can imagine Bobby shaking his head now, "In Fall River-"

"Where's that?"

"It's about a fifty miles south of Boston," Bobby answers after a few moments of paper shuffling, "Look, there's been another death, fourth one this week, the police are trying to pass it off as a wild animal attack, but even they're starting to become suspicious. You mind checking it out?"

"We just finished a 'cry wolf' case here in Athol, it took us a week to investigate it. Damn college students. It's a week of my life I'll never get back…" Dean snaps and sighs. The sigh turns into a wide yawn, reminding him how damn tired he really is.

"Well, this ain't a false alarm," Bobby says and clears his throat, "So… how's Sam -"

"Thanks, Bobby. I'll let Sam know tomorrow morning," Dean says and hangs up abruptly, effectively ending the conversation.

The clock on his phone reads three-thirty. He locks the phone and drops it on the counter between his and Sam's bed.

"Hey, was that Bobby?" Sam's sleepy voice suddenly asks him.

With a sigh Dean looks over, "Yeah. Sorry I woke you up… I'll tell you in the morning. Go back to sleep," he says and shuffles deeper into his own bed in a small attempt to convince Sam to listen to him.

"Hmmm…" was the only reply he got out of Sam. Within a minute Sam's breathing went back to deep, long inhalations.

With Sam asleep, aka. Sir Bitch-o-lot, Dean's left with no-one to keep him entertained. Which kinda sucks. TV after three in the morning sucks, there're no games on his phone to keep his mind off of the pain in his side.

It's times like these when he knows just why Michelangelo painted those murals on the ceiling. It wasn't to show-off or anything like that. It's because Michael was also the kind of guy who had this type of insomnia, who laid awake at night starting at a fugly water-stained ceiling. What's worse, it wasn't like the stains could even form a pattern or picture that he could use to entertain himself with.

He starts awake the next morning when he hears Sam opening the motel door. Only, he's _emerging, not going._ Dean's inner-hunter is freaking out at the thought that he was so out of it as to not notice a simple door opening and closing. Especially when the door's not greased and the hinges creak like a Scooby-doo remake.

A cup of the good stuff in hand and he explains everything to Sam. They didn't really _plan_ on getting back on another hunt this fast, but now rest for the wicked.

They're packed and paid within the hour, Dean deciding to let Sam drive for the first couple hundred miles. Of course, Sam being Sam, he couldn't just let well enough alone. "Are you sure you're feeling alright, I mean… you let me _drive…._ " He says, as if the fact wasn't obvious to his brother.

Worcester, 60 miles, whizzes by Dean's vision. 'Not like I can operate the clutch with my right leg' he thinks morosely. "So what? Most county's down here are men anyways," he shoots back, regretting it instantly. He thinks for a minute then finally nudges Sam in the arm, "We can switch when you see a chick, kay?" he says cheekily and lifts his foot up to rest it on the dash. He _hates_ sticking his boots on the dash, but they're clean and the angle's relieving some pressure off his side.

Sam shoots a dirty look at Dean's boots, probably thinking 'He never lets _me_ do that', but he lets it go and drives on.

They pass a couple of hic-towns on their way to the hunt, but Dean starts twitching ten miles away from Worchester. He swaps legs on the dash, shifts in his seat, adjusts his belt and pulls his jacket tighter around him.

"You need to take a leak or something? I can always pull over…" Sam says, not sure whether Dean'll slap him for the remark.

Dean grunts and shakes his head irritably, "No, thanks," and snuggles deeper into his jacket –as well as his seat.

Sometime before they entered Worchester he probably fell asleep, because the next thing Dean registers is Sam's hand on his forehead. He bats at Sam's hand and quickly sits up, brushing his hands over his face.

"Sorry, it kinda looks like you've got a fever," Sam says and guiltily focuses his attention back to the road.

Dean's about to give him to give him the bird, but pauses halfway to grab his stomach. By the time he even _thinks_ about asking Sam to pull over, Sam's already edging the Impala to the curb. Surprised motorists blare their horns, but Sam switches on the Impala's hazards apologetically.

Dean, however, stubbornly swallows down the nauseating feeling, "Why'd you pull over?" he snaps, hoping to heaven and beyond that Sam just wanted to hop into the Fabric Store they just stopped in front of. Yeah, because sewing is _Sam's_ type of thing.

"You looked like you turned green there for a minute… I thought you were going to be sick," Sam mumbles and slowly edged the Impala back into Worchester traffic.

"What the hell's wrong with you? I'm not sick!" Dean snaps, a bit more bitingly than he actually intended. He bites his lip to stop himself from yelping when Sam hits a bump in the road. He forces his breathing down. Slow in. Slow out.

If Sam noticed there was something wrong with him, he's got the sense to shut up about it.

With a glance at the fuel guage, Dean starts looking for the saving pair. He needs a gas station that's relatively close to a pharmacy or chemist or something. Gas station and butchery. _No, thanks._ Gas Station and hairdresser. _What?_ Clothing store. _I got enough jackets._ Belly-dancing Class. _Not today, ma'am._

He sighs and wonders if he shouldn't just check his phone's internet for a map or something.

As luck would have it though, they pass a gas station with a pharmacy just a few shops away. _Jackpot._ Dean tells Sam to fill up.

There're another four patrons in front of them, but neither of them actually mind. Sam apparently needs to "negotiate the release of some chocolate hostages" –according the attendant who supervises the "Porcelain Super Bowl" at the station. Dean couldn't help but laugh at Sam's reaction and says he'll stay with his baby until it's their turn.

Once Sam disappears to the head, Dean practically jogs to the pharmacy.

He's praying halfway up to the counter that they don't have a junkie for a chemist and that they'll have something other than illegal shit to take care of the stitch in his side.

When he stops at the back of the pharmacy, the back of a white coat's facing him. But, then the coat turns and Dean's daydream instantly shatters. The chemist is a thirty-something brunette – _guy._ Somehow, even wallowing in pain, Dean's disappointed.

Nametag: 'Tommy' smiles, "Yes, can I help you?" he says and scribbles down some chicken-scratch on the notepad behind the counter.

'What can be so important that they're _always_ busy writing shit down when I come here?' the hunter asks himself before plastering on his 'business face', "Yeah, look, I've got …." He thinks for a moment before just saying the first best option that pops into his head, "just a pain in side, so can you just give me something for the pain?"

"Where exactly?"

Dean points to the spot, doesn't miss the look of concern of the pharmacist.

"What type of pain is it?"

If Dean hadn't been in hospitals so much because of hunting, he'd probably have thought the guy was giving him a hard time. "It's like a someone's got my intestines in a clamp … " he says and nods after a moment of thought. Yeah, _gripping_ was the best way to describe it.

The pharmacist nods thoughtfully and held up one finger in the 'one minute' sign before disappearing to the back.

With a glance to his watch, Dean _knows_ Sam should be heading back to the Impala at any second. He needs to be back before that. He decides against tapping his foot against the floor, just in case this guy is a temperamental chemist – who might decide to let him suffer for revenge.

He's back within a minute with a small bottle of beige pills, "One four times daily. If that pain gets worse… or you get nauseas at all, you should _really_ see a doctor… " Tom instructs sternly and hands the medication over, "You can pay at the counter".

Two minutes later, Dean's in the passenger seat, one less tablet in the bottle of prescribed meds. He shifts over and slowly eases the Impala closer to the station when the car in front of him pulls away. It kinda surprises him that it doesn't feel like his intestines are trying to rip him apart when he depresses the clutch.

The attendant, Phil, doesn't give him half as much of a hassle he prepared for and the account is settled with good ol' "Mr. Phil Taylor", which the jockey finds so funny. Since, "hey! Our names match!". Dean smiles, nods and scoots back to the passenger seat.

When Sam gets back and slides behind the wheel, Dean's already yawning. "Took you sweet time," Dean mumbles and searches the glove box for his shades.

"There're lines _everywhere_ in this town," Sam growls and jabs his safety belt in place.

Dean follows suit not a moment too soon, 'cause Sam's driving like Fast and the Furious and it's not often when Sam's this determined. Good thing Sam doesn't have a lot of determination in this respect, and his itchy foot is lost somewhere between Worchester and Boston.

It's a definite _somewhere_ , since Dean fell asleep even before they exit Worchester. He wakes up a couple times with a stab in his side when his foot falls from the dash, but he juts it back in place with a stomp each time. Sam finds it amusing though, and each time tries his best to supress his laughter.

Even with the bumps in the road and the roadwork, Dean's actually quite impressed with the meds the chemist gave him. The pain was only a dull stitch now, instead of the searing clutching pain of before. He's tries codeine, aspirin and even whiskey… but this trumps all of it –combined. He makes a mental note –which he knows he'll forget later on anyway- to thank that guy whenever he passes Worchester again.

But, not an hour into the sleep, and Sam's shaking Dean's shoulder, "Dean! Wake up!" he says, louder than normal.

Dean, blinks awake, a bit surprised that his arms are up in a defensive pose, "Y-yyyeeeah?" he asks with a yawn.

"I think you were having a nightmare…" Sam says sheepishly, trying to keep an eye on both Dean and the road at the same time.

'No, Samantha, that's _your_ department', Dean wants to quip, but he decides against it to save the peace, and end with a well-placed: "Whatever…"

…. This is the start of a looonnnggg week.


	2. Dean's not a Pacifist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN1: I don't know why, but I always pictured Sam as the more sneakier of the two of them… if one of them had to learn or practice pickpocketing or such, it'd be Sam. *shrugs* dunno why ;P
> 
> AN2: btw in the prev chappie: 'Phil Taylor' is the drummer of Motorhead ;P I thought Dean might use that
> 
> AN3: This takes place a little while after 1x12 "Faith". I wanted this also to take place especially after that episode, because it's the most likely time (barring the last few episodes of Season 1) that Sam would attribute Dean's 'moodiness' to the heart attack-healing from the Grim Reaper (aka. "he's been moody since the heart attack"). Meh, seemed the most plausible ^.^
> 
> AN4: As with all my fics, be prepared for some major OOC-ness. You have been warned!

They stop in Boston for a late lunch, also opting to switch sides. The outskirts of town were the least crowded and they choose the first best looking take-out restaurant.

Sam opts to take the run and before Dean can even think of a reply, Sam's out the door. Dean scoots over to the driver's side and slides his hands over the steering wheel with a content smile, _'Oh how I missed you, baby!'_

One part of Dean is slightly peeved at being left in the car like a friggen four-year-old, and the other half is _so_ loving this. It was nice. Sitting in the car. _Like a boss._ Arm out the window and feet on the dash, soaking up some Vitamin D till he's pretty sure he's got a case of sunburn. Of course, it isn't _hot_ in Boston _,_ but the sun takes no prisoners.

The older Winchester feels himself relax even more with each minute. The sun was like a whole-body hot water-bottle. And it feels good.

He looks over to the side, winking at a passing pair of heels. The blonde scoffs with feigned anger, but Dean spots the rosy rouge her cheeks suddenly acquired. 'Tired, in pain _and_ medicated, but I _still_ got it!' he thinks with a smirk and an appreciative stare as she walks down the road.

A grumble from inside the diner attracted Dean's attention. He looks over and spots Sam frantically patting his pockets with a frown.

' _Of course he'd forget his wallet… typical_ ' Dean thought for a second, then finally laughed at the latter part, ' _So NOT typical_ '

Big brother Dean gets out the car, revelling in the feeling of being able to stretch both legs for the first time in what feels like _weeks._ He slams Metallicar's door shut and waltzes over. 'Big brother to the rescue… ' he can't help but think with a bubble of pride. "Forgot your wallet, Sam?"

"Dean?" Sam exclaims, seriously not having expected Dean to join him.

"How much?"

"I just left it in the car… I think it's still in the gloveb-"

"How much?" Dean repeats, already pulling a hundred from his wallet.

The teen cashier 'Josua' seems to being enjoying Sam's flustering, even trying to worsen it, "Oh, sorry sir. Only the person who _ordered_ the take-out can pay for it. If you can't pay for it right now you'll have to wash the dishes in the back…"

Sam doesn't seem to be catching on, but Dean's finding this funny as hell. "Damn, sorry, dude. I just locked the keys in the car-"

"You did WHAT?" Sam shrieks in a mild panic.

"Locked them in the car… I thought I could use the phone to… but if you have to play dishwasher, we're going to be here a while," Dean says, crosses his arms and shakes his head.

Josua nods sombrely and winks approvingly at Dean.

Sam catches _that_ though, and causes both guys to laugh their heads off. Sam pays the guy and grabs the take out irritably. He can't keep it up the charade though, and finally relents a smile before walking off with Dean next to him.

Dean's back in the driver's seat, loving the feeling of being able to _drive comfortably_ for the first time since _forever._ It doesn't feel like his right leg will rip out of its socket each time he rides the clutch and even turning a corner doesn't cause so much pain that stars start to dance in front of his eyes.

They know they're a bit behind schedule, if this really _is_ a werewolf, then they _have_ to make it to River Falls by tonight. It's the last week before a full moon, and that's when wolves _really_ get into the sport of killing.

A few minutes out of Boston Sam gets a call from Bobby, he switches on the speakerphone and drops it on the console between himself and Dean.

Bobby fills them in on the rest of the information he could scrounge up about the case in River Falls while the gulp down the pies and chips they ordered. The elder man sends a couple of picture messages of photos and documents from the case to Sam's phone. They both yell their goodbyes before Sam finally hangs up.

"I actually forgot how much he loves to talk…" Sam mumbles with an amused smile, looking at the time duration of the call. _18:56 minutes. Wow._ For them, who practically live on coordinates and a maximum of half-a-minute phone calls… this was… well… _wow_.

Dean shifts uncomfortably in his seat, adjusting his right leg on the clutch, "Yeah… ". He slowly eases the brake on when Sam all but dives into the backseat to get his bag. When Sam finally sits again, he speeds up, no questions asked.

Sam digs out his laptop from the bottom of his bag and pushes back the screen before starting it up. He syncs the Bluetooth and sends all the info to his desktop. One by one, each received file announces its arrival with a chirpy ' _TING_ ' that's just a tad _too_ cheerful for the guy sitting next to him.

By the ninth ' _TING_ ', Dean looks like he's about to toss Sam's laptop out the window.

Either Sam's really psychic, or Dean can safely scratch off 'observant' on the list of things that Sam lacks in general once and for all, since Sam just pressed some friggen contortionist keyboard-shortcut and muted the damn thing.

Sweet solitude. Whispers of gravel crunching below and the wind flying by them. It's not often that the older Winchester would enjoy silence. Silence would usually be drowned out by a well-placed Metallica or Black Sabbath. Somehow though, today, the idea of music is killing him.

Or, he's about _to kill._

The pounding sound of some shitty rapper blasting through the speakers of some idiot driving behind them suddenly filled their ears. The bass alone was enough to rattle their eyeteeth. Constant four-squared bass pumping with the odd sound effect of electricity crackling was enough to drive them crazy.

Only, Sam's the only one who _isn't_ going crazy. "DEAN!" he yells, grabbing Dean's hand, just in time to stop him from firing a string of rounds from his Taurus into the tone-deaf idiot behind them. He also makes a grab at his laptop –which had been upset with Sam's saving dive.

"WHAT?" Dean snaps at Sam, trying to aim at the moron with one hand and drive straight with the other. He hates sitting twisted like this, it's making the stitch in his side worse. He clenches his jaw, biting down the pain.

"Dean! You can't just _shoot_ anybody!" Sam yells and manages to wrestle the Taurus from Dean's hand just in time. He shoves -tries to shove- it into the overfull glove-box. The latch doesn't want to close with the piece inside, but it doesn't stop Sam from trying to slam it shut a couple of times before finally giving up and shoving the pistol under his seat.

Dean angrily hits the steering wheel, and clams up like an oyster. Lips pulled to a line and his eyes narrowed, as if anything else would leak out whatever he _didn't_ want Sam to know.

"Here, take a look at this…" Sam says in an effort to distract Dean from his _murderous_ intentions. The photo was of a crime scene in River Falls. It's a picture of the fourth victim this _thing_ caused. A young woman, actually _quite_ attractive with auburn hair and a model's body… but it was hard to tell, mostly because blood covered most of the scene.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Rookie?"

"Yeah," Dean says and makes sure to keep an eye on the road this time, "Seems like a pretty ritzy place though… where'd the report say she was killed?"

"It kinda looks like a Vegas hotel room, but the report says she was killed at home. The neighbours opposite her called the police when they heard screaming," Sam says, reading the report.

"Well, what do the over victims' places look like… 'cause I totally get a jealous werewolf," Dean says with a grin.

But, Sam's not stupid. _That_ is not Dean's grin. _That_ was the grin Dean hands him each time he had to tell 'Sammy' that they had to move at the end of the week. _That_ was the grin Dean had on when he had to let Sam know that their Dad would miss his birthday, _again. That_ grin, was not normal.

Sam's not convinced… in fact, he is seriously considering taking Dean to a shrink. Or a doctor. Or maybe Bobby. Yes, Bobby will sort him out. A glance at Dean tells him to wait on this little plan of action until _after_ the hunt. Somehow hunting always calms Dean down, 'cause if Dean keeps fidgeting… hunting might be the best bet for a quick fix. Sam does ask if he can take over driving, but unless Dean can't _hear_ him, he's definitely not interested in _that_ option.

Dean's not looking at the top of his game though. He tries to stretch it out, but a side stretch does nothing to relieve the pain in his side. Trying to stretch out his legs only sends spikes of pain shooting up his spine. It suddenly hits him though. It's been four hours since he took the meds. _Shit._ He looks over as non-chalantly as possible, trying to see if Sam's awake or just gazing at the scenery. When he sees Sam's eyes open and alert he silently curses, because this means he'll have to wait until Sam falls asleep – or they reach River Falls- whichever comes first to take the next round of meds.

What's worse, the humidity in the car's killing him. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the backseat. He rolls down his window and fans some air into his shirt. " _Damn, hot enough out here for you?_ " he says and puffs.

He's actually been considering getting his jacket from his duffle in the trunk, _and Dean's hot?_ He's sick. He shuts his laptop and twists in his seat to set it down on the backseat, not missing how Dean once again slows down the Impala just enough to make _Sam's_ job easier. "Hot…?" Sam finally says disbelievingly, blinking a few times.

"You're not?" Dean says incredulously, suddenly jumping on the horn of the Impala when the driver in front of him stops out of the blue.

Sam, a bit surprised that Dean would blare the horn at someone stopping normally at a Stop-sign, only shakes his head, "Uh… no… _you did see that sign, didn't you?_ "

"What sign?" Dean growls and blares the horn when the Toyota in front of him takes too long to drive off again, " _Stupid mooks who don't know how to drive…_ "

Being a younger brother sometimes comes with innate knowledge. One example of that knowledge is: knowing when to shut up. So, Sam shuts up and lets Dean drive.

When wiping the sweat of his forehead becomes too annoying, Dean finally pulls over. He parks on the side of the road and climbs out.

"Geez, it's boiling!" Dean puffs in frustration, walking to the trunk and propping it up.

Sam opens his door and gets out and lazily stretches out, allowing Dean a couple minutes alone. He _knows_ there's something wrong with Dean. He guesses it's maybe a torn muscle, or could always be IBS considering how many cheeseburgers Dean eats within a week.

Dean, taking full advantage of Sam's yoga session, to medicate himself with another of those glorious little lifesavers. He grabs one of the water bottles in the trunk and downs it. _Yes. Work your kickass magic_.

Sam joins Dean at the back a few minutes later, grabbing the half-full water bottle from Dean and chugs down the rest of it, "Thanks!"

"I think we're about three hours away from River Falls…" Dean says and rubs his eyes. He couldn't help it, the pain was wearing his down.

"I'll drive!" Sam chirps and walks around to the driver's side without a blink.

Dean shrugs, not really wanting to _not drive,_ but not really wanting to drive when he's feeling like his insides are _nom nom_ -ing at the rest of his body each time he moves. "Here," Dean says and digs in his pocket for the … keys…?

"Got it!" Sam practically sings and jingles the pickpocketed keys in the air before climbing in.

"Bitch!" Dean yells angrily, scoffing before he takes his seat and slams the door shut.

Sam chuckles with a good degree of smugness, "Don't be so jealous!" and the Chevy roars to life.

It looks like Dean's feeling a bit better though, 'cause it's not half an hour later and he turns the A/C back down and grabs his leather jacket from the back and drapes it over himself. A few times when they hit a pothole or a bump in the road-levels, Dean's breath hitches and he grabs his side, but otherwise he seems to be okay.

It's late afternoon when they finally reach River Falls, slowing down to a crawl as they drive through the town looking for a motel, or in, or anything. Or, at least, Sam's looking… Dean's still sleeping.

After a good twenty minutes, a couple of detours, Sam finally finds a pretty good-looking inn. Considering how Dean's been acting –and looking- for the past few days, he's guessing Dean's coming down with something… so being in a place where they don't have to worry about disinfecting the showers or bedding –not that they ever do, but that's not the point… being in an actual decent _inn_ for once, would definitely shorten the recovery time… and if this is really a werewolf case, then they'll need all the help they can get.

"Two separate beds, please," Sam says and nods gratefully at the elderly woman behind the counter. She takes Sam through the grand tour through the Inn and finally stops in front of their room, "You have a kitchenette, bathroom _en suite_ , two beds… the telephone on the drawers is linked to the front desk. You can give us a call if you need anything, honey," she says and smiles sweetly before handing over the keys.

Sam forces a smile, hoping she won't tell him another story about her sons or her cats or anything else. When she does leave, he sighs in relief and unlocks the door before heading back to the Impala.

Dean's so out of it that he doesn't even realise they've stopped. Even when Sam's finished unpacking the duffels and took them to their room, he's still sleeping. Only when Sam knocks on the window does he startle awake, "WAH-"

"Hey, I already booked us in…" Sam says and opened the door for him, "I booked the room for two weeks… I'm not sure how long this hunt'll take…"

Dean smiles weakly and climbs out. Or, at least, he thought he was going to. His right leg doesn't take, and buckles under him as soon as he stands on it.

Sam's on the ball though, and grabs Dean by the arm just in time.

Dean bats his hands away again and slams the door shut, "Touchy-much?" he grabs the room keys from Sam's hand and stalks off before stopping halfway, "Which.. way?"

It doesn't both Sam to simply catch-up to Dean and shows him where the room is, no smugness, no quips. Dean's got both eyes trained for some form of witticism from Sam, but it's nowhere in sight. That just makes this worse.

Once they arrive in the room, Dean heads to the bathroom while Sam starts unpacking. Dean doesn't seem to be registering the size or style of the room – which is a _much_ more comfortable than usual.

On the one hand, Sam's feeling a bit annoyed, because, _HELLO!_ Doesn't Dean _notice_ how awesome this room is? On the other hand, he's relieved, since now, he won't get the 'don't pay over fifteen dollars on a room, ever'.

Halfway through packing, Sam a bit surprised that Dean's still in the shower. It's still only been twenty minutes. Nonetheless, Mrs. Hall arrives with the dinner Sam ordered. There had to be a reason why Sam ended up paying over fifty dollar for the suite: the beef stew, rice stack, veg-plate and jell-o pudding was looking _enchanting._

Indubitably, it _had_ to come with a side-salad of 'how family reunions are always a wonderful blessing' from Mrs. Hall.

Sam turns on his 'smile and nod' function and waits it out until Dean emerges from the bathroom with a towel around his waist. Sam takes the opportunity of a -stunned – to apologize and quickly shut (and lock) the door behind _him_.

"You know, now she'll probably think we're gay," Sam deadpanned and walked to the kitchenette with assorted tray of awesomeness.

"Don't hate the towel-skirt, Sammy. Tarzan's loincloth stayed in fashion for a reason," Dean says, and uses the towel to whip to Sam's behind.

"Ow! _Shit!_ " Sam yelps, almost dropping the tray, he sent a back-kick to Dean, but missed him with an inch, "You're such a jerk!". He also wanted to add, 'AND you're acting more normal than you've been in the last few months,' but he stays silent and simply smiles. He decides to ignore that stark-naked Dean and dish up their dinner.

Dean, finally gets dressed, albeit carefully, "Hey, where'd you get the grub?" he asks, buttoning up his jeans and dresses one of his red v-neck shirts. He pads his hand carefully his right side, but the third round of those 'beige beauties' he took while he was in the bathroom seemed to be kicking in, even his fever was receding.

He sits down on the bed, shuffling back until his back hits the headboard. He sighs and rolls his neck, trying to get rid of some of stiffness, which he chalks off to sleeping in the car for so long.

"Hungry?" Sam calls from the kitchen. By the sounds of it he's already dishing out.

"Yeah," Dean says and tries to catch a glimpse of dinner, "Was that beef stew I saw?"

"Mmmhhmmm…" well, by the sound of it, Sam was currently sampling said stew. And if it tastes half as good as it sounds, then this'll be heavenly.

Three-quarters of the way through _Centre Stage,_ Dean's asleep, his bowl of stew tilting dangerously in his hand. Sam leans over and slowly tugs the bowl from his hand, setting it down on the table between them. He doesn't lower the volume of the movie though, since even the slightest change'll wake Dean up… something Sam's not willing to risk at the moment, not when Dean's been sleeping as shitty as he's been the past few months.

Sam slowly clears out the rest of the leftover dinner and stashes it in the fridge. Depending on how research and the interviews go, it's possible this dinner will hold them over for about two days. A couple of dollars go a _long_ way.

When Sam does finally get back to the room, something stops him dead in his tracks. He's used to seeing some weird shit. When witches, vampires and nymphs become _normal_ , then weird shit kinda just doesn't rate anymore. Somehow, this just tips the _weird-scale_.

It's not normal that Dean's doubled-over, gripping his stomach, his face twisted in pain. He's mumbling anxiously in his sleep, just like he did when he fell asleep in the car earlier today. And that's got Sam worried, since Dean practically _never_ gets nightmares. _Causes them_ , yes. But doesn't get them.

Last time he's seen him like this… well… it's probably been just about four years ago. And last time, Dean ended up in hospital.


	3. Dean's not a nerd

"Dean, DEAN!" Sam's not sure if he should be freaking out when Dean doesn't respond, "DEAN!"

The twitching of his limbs and face twisted in pain still told Sam that Dean was dreaming. It had to be one _heck_ of a nightmare, "WAKE UP!"

Suddenly, Dean's batting at his hand, frowning, "wh- The hell is wrong with you?" he growls, flips over and starts snoring.

Sam stares at him for a minute, unsure whether he's relieved or pissed. He opts to finally just walk back to his bed and _try_ to sleep.

Not that _that_ ever happened. At two am, Sam was _still_ awake and Dean was _still_ chain-snoring and making him a bit jealous 'cause he actually _could_ sleep. With a grunt he shuffles out of bed and grabs his laptop form its bag, setting it up.

Somewhere between plugging in his laptop and switching it on, Dean woke up with a start.

"H-hey… wh're you doin'?" Dean asks, yawning loudly.

"Just getting most of the research out the way…"

"Can' sleep, huh?"

Sam shrugs and starts maneuvering his mouse across the screen and randomly starts typing on his keyboard, a trick he learnt from Dean to bring an end to an uncomfortable conversation.

Dean grumbles sleepily as he shuffles off the bed towards head. When he's inside though with the door closed, he grabs the sink.

The nausea hadn't completely receded yet. He forcibly swallows and focuses on relaxing. _Yes. FHM. Fashion TV. Jennifer Love Hewitt…_

He runs the tap and splashes some of the water on the back of his neck and on his forehead, wincing at the temperature difference. _Either this is a fever, or this water is running straight from the Rocky River._

Internally he's pretty grateful, for once, for his sense of …well… messiness. His jacket on the bathroom counter held his little life-savers. His cure from torture. Oh hell yeah.

But, it was these damned beige oval pills that dull the pain, that give him the worst fucking night terrors he's had in years. The first-half of the night he didn't mind. Killing zombies in your dreams was actually pretty fun. But, let's face it, between staying awake all night because of pain and staying awake all night because of night terror after night terror… it becomes a toss-up.

Another problem…. Sam. He knows. Dean _knows_ he knows. Maybe not what _he_ thinks _he_ knows… but _he_ just knows….and it's getting harder to pretend to be asleep whenever Sam 'randomly' decides to 'take a break' from researching during the night. Let's face it, people, there _had_ to be a reason the kid went so far in college. He's not a dumbass either.

So, they both stay awake the whole night. One keeping an eye on the one pretending to sleep.

By five-thirty, Dean sits up and 'wakes up' for the first time since he 'fell asleep'. He looks over and feigns a sleepy-shocked look when he spots that Sam's still awake. "Mmhey…. W'tre you doin' up?"

Sam, being the little brother and constitutionally rightfully innocent-looking, smiles, "Been awake for a while…"

"Yeah?" _Me too, bitch._ "

"Yeah."

It's just two years, _er…_ two hours later, when Dean uses his Big Brother status to get Sam to take the interviews for once, saying, "You're growing up, Sammy-boy. You need to know how to handle this on your own!"

Sam's not too thrilled about this idea. Not because he doesn't like interviewing, oh no, it's because Dean will now be the Research Manager, the information wranger, the keyboard jockey, the conductor of Sam's computer. Let's face it: getting your laptop frozen on Busty Asian Beauties dot com is only funny the first four times.

But, no matter how Dean's prowess as a hunter, his Nerd-anian needs some work.

At least it's not Busty Asian Beauties this time…

He found out from the front desk from Mrs. Hall that her cat of eight years is pregnant with its fifth litter…. That _and donde esta la biblioteca_. The library was five blocks away, next to the liquor store and surgery. Liquor and surgery. Yeah. Two things you _never_ want to see next to each other, at least not when the surgeon was part of that little equation. Although… pretty inspired.

The Impala's out on a date with Sam, so Dean's left with about two k's worth of strutting. Then again, Dean's not even out the gate of the Inn before he starts shaking. He's sure it's just the cold outside, but the fact that practically everyone else was dressed in muscle tees and sun hats.

Sam checks in with him a few minutes later, giving his twenty to Dean. The second interview. The first was a bust, the woman actually threatened him with a Glock. Loaded.

Which was probably a good thing. Either the lady's gun crazy, or, she's scared out of her mind. Based on the short –and dangerous- conversation he had with her, some big-ass wolf hunted her and her husband down. Literally. From their campsite out of town, right into their own house. Even opened the door. Not the woman, oh no, the wolf.

"She ended up barricading herself in the basement… stayed there till the scratching died down," Sam says and sighs over the phone, "Took four days."

"The hell-?" Dean asks.

"No, it took her four days to calm down enough to actually check outside," Sam says, shuffling through some papers, "by that time her husband was long dead."

"That sucks," Dean says and sighs. He slows down his walk, suddenly very aware of how hard he was breathing, "Head to the mo-"

"-The morgue, I know. Dude, I _have_ actually been at this for a couple of years too," Sam growls and gets a reply of an end-of-call tone.

It's not that Dean gets a kick out of randomly hanging up on Sam, but he can just _see_ Sam's screwed up angry face… and that just slaps a smile on his face.

He strips off his jacket and drapes it over his arm, making sure to adjust his shirt at the back – just in case it rode up and his Taurus 1911 was now visible.

When he finally does reach the library, it's not nearly as packed as he thought it might be. He checks the date. _Sunday._ Doesn't feel like a Sunday.

Six newspapers in the town. Six. Not too shabby. Barring, four of those are graduate-run papers. But… the best news comes in unedited. The deaths were actually added into the obituaries of all six papers, but only those little grad-school papers had more details in them.

Where the attacks happened. What the police and officials say. Details of the attacks. The attacks themselves looked like animal attacks, only, in all of them the hearts were missing... But still, the only weird thing for the average joe was the location. Maybe further north in Minnesota, like Duluth.

He checks out the latest gardening mags, they usually have the moon phases in their prints. Armed with that, a year calendar and a marker; he finally matches up the dates. _Check, check and_ … _well this sucks._

Werewolf hunting in summer. And it rains here often. Shit. Nothing worse than the smell of wet dog. Even the thought had him gagging. A bit more than gaggin, actually.

When he finally stops retching over the trashcan outside the library, he waits out the final wave of nausea to pass. The cold wave that runs down his back has him swallowing hard, but it passes a few minutes later. The stomach cramps suck, but he manages to keep it together.

"Heat-wave getting to you, son?"

 _What heat-wave? It's freezing._ He looks up, spots the librarian next to him.

The old lady's got some good style though, dressed like Audrey Hepburn. "You feeling sick?"

 _No shit, Sherlock._ He swallows hard again and clears his throat, " _I'm f-fine._ "

"I can see," the lady smiles, "Come inside, there's an A/C and I've got some lemonade in the fridge."

"I thought this was a library."

"I thought this was the twenty-first century," she quips and pats him on the back, "Come back inside."

Reluctantly he does finally follow her in, although _very_ aware of a cramp in his right leg… _of course. That damn drive from that Athol really just drains a guy._ So, that's why not enjoying the air-conditioning as much as the librarian thinks he should. She pulls up a chair for him to her by the counter and helps him sit –although, not without a very grumpy lemonade bottle is stuck in a bar-fridge under the library check-out counter.

"Here you go," she pours the pair of them a glass, finally pouring one more once a Mr. Evans joins them at the check-out, "Here, Ed."

"Who's this, Kate?" Ed asks, setting his books down on the counter as he takes the glass –Ed didn't look so surprised to see the librarian bartending. In fact, he seemed pretty at home.

It actually tastes better than he expected. Lemony and sweet, just like it should.

"I saw you browsing through the papers, you investigating those attacks?" Kate asks, taking her time to check the books Ed's borrowing, "You a PI, or something?"

"Something like that," Dean says with a tired smile and takes another slurp. He works his legs up and down, trying to get the scathing cramp out of his leg. _Need more salt in my diet… hahah… 'diet'…_

"Sounds suspicious," Ed says with a frown.

Bone tired, but still not willing to let some towny alert the fuzz of him, just yet… "What _is_ it with people and badges…" Dean digs out the ID in his left inner jacket pocket. _County ID._

"Don't give him a hard time, he's sick, Ed!" Kate snaps, rapping the guy on the arm.

"County, eh?" Ed continues on, his frown deepening, "Aren't you a little young to be a County? My brother's a County… he got his badge only five years ago. He's thirty-six. I doubt you're even twenty-five."

"Woa, what's the age-gap between you two then? Twenty years?" Dean quips, earning a chuckle from the elderly Kate.

"Good one," Ed says with a hearty laugh, apparently completely forgetting his previous reservations, and pats his books into a relatively neat pile, "Gotta run, England's playing Australia tonight."

"Football?"

"Rugby," Ed says and nods towards Kate, "See you at Roy's."

"See you!" Kate calls as Ed exits the library. It was quiet again.

With one last sip, the glass is empty and he actually _does_ feel better. "Thanks, sweetheart," he says and licks his lips, "That hit the spot."

"No problem… you feeling a bit better now?" she asks unsurely.

"Yeah…"

The grey-haired woman opens a notepad and starts scribbling on it, "Look, you won't get far in this town if you don't know anyone, we're a tight-knit town unfortunately. Your best bet would be to give David a call, he works at the station… if you want information about these attacks, he'll be the best place to start at," she says and hands the paper to him, "David's my nephew… he's pretty knowledgeable about the land, if it _is_ an animal attack, he'll know for sure."

"He's a cop?"

"Police Officer, my boy, but yes," she says after a moment's unimpressed frown.

"Thanks, sweetheart," Dean says and grabs the paper, staring at it for a moment, "I'll give him a call later today." … _those words never sound right when they come from my mouth… ugh…._

He thanks her and sets back to the task of trudging back to the Inn. No, diner first. Wait… Sam first.

On the sixth ring Sam finally answers, "Hey"

"Do you ever answer your phone, or is it just for decoration and for checking the time?" Dean growls irritably, leaning on the railing of the stairs leading out of the library.

"I'm not even going to ask," Sam says.

Over the phone Dean can hear the sound of a car door closing, followed closely by the end-of-call tone.

" _Son-nuv-a-bitch!_ " Dean curses out loudly. _That bastard just hung up on me!_

"HEY!" it's Sam's voice… and it's not coming from a phone.

Dean looks up and spots the Impala a few yards away, parked in front of the library. He spots Sam, leaning on the hood of the Impala with a grin on his face. _Wise-ass._ But that's not really what's bothering him, he knows. The fact is, the Impala _isn't_ exactly a stealthy motor. It's _meant_ to make a statement. The roar of that engine can purr _Stairway to Heaven_ from about half-a-mile away… and he didn't notice it. At all.

He knows for sure there's something wrong with him now.

That, or Sam messed up Metallicar's engine again… _doubtful, the kid only had the car for an hour or so…. Then again…_

"Ready for some lunch? _"_ Sam says and loosens his tie.

" _Lunch?"_ Dean checks his watch, almost passing out when he sees it's past noon. _Apparently time flies when you're at the library too._

"Yeah, and..." Sam pauses for effect, "They've got _pie_ …"

Dean forces a smile and heads over to the Impala, still aware of that damned cramp in his leg, but he's trying to walk it off anyway. It hurts like a mother, but Dean's pretty sure it'll pass once he gets a double cheese burger in his gut, topped with some cherry pie and a good portion of beer. Yes. Sweet, numbing beer.

As the older brother, it's his prerogative to drive. It's also his prerogative to _let_ Sam drive. But, he keeps track though. _Can't let the kid behind the wheel too many times, he'll get used to it._

"Pie?" Dean asks when he reaches the Chevy.

Sam knows he's just stalling to catch his breath, but carries on anyway, "Apple, Blueberry, Banana, Cherry… you name it…"

"Sounds good," the elder Winchester says and finally climbs in.

For once, Sam drives slow, not that he ever drives fast… but this time it's noticeably slow. Like a friggin' snail in peanut butter.

"Dude, any slower and Miss. Daisy might overtake us," Dean says and sighs, rolling down the window down. He sticks his head out the window, _fully_ aware of how hot it was outside. He doesn't particularly like leaning over unto his sore side, so he shifts himself so his body's almost facing Sam. He sighs contently as the angry stitch starts letting up. _Much better._

Sam, courteous dude he is, doesn't tell Dean it's because of _him_ that he's making kayaking down the Hudson river might be the better option of transport at the moment, "Possible…" he says and decides to change the subject before things get out of hand, "Look… I visited the morgue as well… all the hearts-".

"-were missing?"

"Yeah… how-"

"Newspapers…."

"Damn… so, when does our window end?"

"Tomorrow night is the last night of the full moon… if we don't get it by then, we'll have to wait for another cycle," Dean says and pulls out a copied map he worked on at the library, "The attacks were basically limited to this area…Ramer field… so, we can scope that out this afternoon..."

Dean shows Sam some of the notes and photocopies he made of the files at the library. Seemed like a solid research job.

When they do finally reach the diner, Dean finally realises what's been bugging him the whole time. He pats his pocket, relived that he remembered to drop them in his jacket pocket.

The get a booth right in front of the counter, Dean orders them a pair of cheeseburgers – _although Sam just HAD to change his to a chicken and veg taco at the last second-_ along with a couple of beers.

"Shit, forgot my cell, Sam…" Dean looks pointedly at Sam, waiting until Sam rolls his eyes and left before finally getting down to business. With a good swig of beer – _and_ a healthy dose of ignoring his cellphone's ringing- Dean finally downs two of those little beige angels at once. _Sweet mama don't fail me now._ Just as he drops the bottle into his jacket pocket, does Sam finally emerges from the parking lot.

"It's not there…" Sam almost moans, taking out his own cell. He re-dials the number, frowning when it rings in Dean's jacket pocket.

Dean just nods towards Sam, winks and drags his phone out of his pocket. He holds up the 'one-minute' sign and answers it, " _Hello?_ ". _Just as if anyone else could be calling._

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Get off the phone," Sam scoffs, hangs up and drops the phone back into his pocket. He walks back to the booth and sits down with a huff, "So... you _found_ it?"

"Hours ago," Dean finally answers when the cheeseburgers arrive.

Their waitress checks up on them a few minutes later, Dean's face stuffed with cheeseburgers… Sam just munching on his fries. She winks at Dean, gets a semi-blank stare as a reply. When she finally does fizzle away, Sam leans over.

"What was that?" Sam asks with a surprised chuckle.

"Wfff vsss wphhht?" Dean mumbles past his half-masticated beef bonanza.

"You didn't even ask for her number," Sam says and starts on his burger.

"Whose?"

Sam blinks.

"Oh, yeah… I forgot… I did get his number!" Dean says and holds out the piece of paper Kate had given him. _Damn that lady had a pair of legs on her._ "He's like Dr. Dolittle or something… wait… more like Due South or something… you know, that show with the guy and the husky…"

" _His number?_ " Sam repeats dumbly, not sure if he's hallucinating or something, he eyes the paper and cringes at the note: _Fuzz._ Great. All they need is a blue-blood on their tail too.

"Totally… I'm sure they'll bring that show back if I call them…" the elder Winchester continues blissfully on.

Sam wasn't even listening.

"We should totally hit Coney Island after this…" Dean suddenly says, a goofy smile on his face.

Sam, used to Dean's usual spontaneity, nods with a smile and takes a good slurp of beer.

"I'm so serious," Dean grins and blinks a couple of times, seemingly not focusing, "We can totally hit the Ferris wheel… no, that's not a good idea, you might throw up again".

Sometimes being the younger brother means you have to take over when the big brother is messed up: "Uh… you okay, man?" Sam asks, frowning.

"Mmm…. _Peachy_ …." Dean says, looking a lot like he does when he's plastered. Only, he's had _one_ beer… not even an entire beer yet…. And he's looking _really_ drunk.

"Dean, you don't look okay…"

"Well, I _would_ be okay if you'd stop listening to Green Day for two minutes…"

"Green Day?"

"You kidding me? I can hear 'Wake me up in September' literally buzzing from your phone…"

"I'm not playing music, Dean. There's not even diner music playing!"

"Oh! Sorry about that!" the waitress yells from the back of the diner, and suddenly some punk music playing from the thousand year-old speakers.

When Dean starts fanning his shirt, Sam's starting to really get worried. It's not that Sam's worried that Dean's feeling hot, considering the temperature outside. Nope. It's because Dean's taken off his jacket and he's got _goosebumps._

"Heheh… _it's getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes…_ " Dean starts chuckling to himself, holding the ice cold beer to his forehead.


	4. Dean's not sick...right?

"You're _out_ of your damn mind!" Sam snaps once they're back in the Impala.

The little 'take off all your clothes' song was almost acted out in full at the Snack 'o Attax diner. The waitress seemed to be game, but Sam wasn't about to live another 'Viking-Incident', at least, not in Minnesota.

"Listen, ass-monkey… I've got a great six-pack on me… and I'm not talking about Heineken, dude," Dean says and slaps his stomach to prove his point. Unfortunately, that suddenly had him yelping and cursing, curling into himself.

Sam hits the breaks, but he just eases up and pulls the Impala to the shoulder once Dean doesn't seem to be shot in the gut or being torn to pieces by a Shtigra. "You okay, man?" Sam finally turns his attention to Dean, pulling on Dean's arms to try and get Dean to un-oyster a bit.

" _FFUUUGGHHHH…._ " Dean growls, gripping his right side till his knuckles turn white, "I'm fine…"

A quick once-over comes up with nada, but Sam's not stupid enough to ignore Dean's attempts to calm his breathing, "Bad burgers?"

Even though there were two Sam's swimming in front of Dean's eyes, he _knows_ when it's best to just _gloss_ over the truth. He nods, "Mmmm Hmmm _….sooo baddd_ …" he grins like an idiot, " _You know, it's bad… it's bad….. it's really really bad…_ ".

It was past noon, and Sam was pretty sure that the best time to scope out that park was _now… but_ with Dean still singing the 'Bad' burger remix of Michael Jackson…

He thinks it over for a minute before finally deciding on what to do. Check first, food-poisoning later. _Sorry, dude._ Pepto-bismol or some Eno's or something before we stop… and then, some werewolf _Nancy Drew_ -ing. Awesome.

What Sam _didn't_ bargain on, was Dean's compliance to this little _op_.

"Dean, _please_ stay in the car, I won't be long!" it's the fourth time he's repeating this part of the argument. The pink liquid -'stomach stabilizer'- had gone down without one complaint from Dean, but now?

"Come on, maaannnnn… don't leave me here by myself…" it kind of reminds Sam that Dean used to be young and scared too.

"I can't drag you with me when you can't even dial 911 on your phone," Sam finally decides to rationalize him out.

"I _so_ can…" and the fact that Dean was holding his phone upside-down wasn't encouraging.

Sam purses his lips, nods and sighs in frustration, "Just get your head in the game,"

"Oh _sweet…_ you watched Highschool Musical too?"

Ten minutes into walking around the Ramer Park, Sam's not too sure about this. 'Cause, see, Dean might've got a good case of food-poisoning (considering Dean's already been sick twice since leaving the diner)… but this is getting ridiculous.

"I think I threw up," Dean says when Sam asks him if he's okay. Considering that he's hanging over the edge of a trashcan, he'd vouch that the answer would be forthcoming.

Sam marks another red circle over the map, pin-pointing the best vantage points of the park he'll have for tonight's stake-out. "You can stay there, I'll be back in a sec," and he actually means it this time, only one spot left _to_ check.

The topographic layout wasn't too bad, a good plain with several high trees. An odd choice for a forest hunting supernatural, but all's fair in love and grabbing a meal on the run. But, in this case, the 'meal on the run' is an actual human and this werewolf isn't just being hit by a case of the munchies. This is personal.

It's with a final circle that Sam marks the pine tree off the right-centre of the park. He wants this think ganked tonight. Not tomorrow. Tonight. If Dean's going to keep pestering him with his bipolar mood-swings, Sam might do the same to him. Right now, though, when Dean's talking to the 'Keep off the Grass' sign like it's a showgirl… yeah…. He'll have to FedEx Dean to Bobby's place.

"Let's go," Sam says, feeling a bit like he's stealing Dean's lines or something.

" _But Sammm…._ I'm still talking to Lorelai," Dean whines.

 _Well, if Dean thinks he's talking to the Gilmore Girls we must be on the right track._ "We're _totally_ coming back tonight, so you can talk to her then," Sam says in his fake-happy way. He's a bit surprised when Dean takes it as it is and is all grins. Even more when Dean leaves 'her' his number, and promises to call.

They walk back to the Chevy, taking it slow this time. It was nearing the better part of three-ish, and Dean's movements were a bit more sluggish than Sam would've wanted. They drive back to the motel, a bit slower than usual, but it's the little brother's job to keep an eye on the passed-out big brother in the passenger seat.

Dean's awake long enough to crash on the bed in the motel, but that's about it. Shoes on, jacket on.

Sam wraps Dean up in a blanket-taco and sets his own alarm for nine. A little less than six hours of sleep, but it'll have to do.

.

.


	5. Sam's not dumb...

It's a little after ten when Sam suddenly jerks awake. He rolls over, checking his phone. _Didn't the alarm go off?_ The silent flashing light of his phone begs to differ, it DID go off.. like, an hour ago. He runs a hand down his face and yawns. It's been a long time since he's felt this tired. _Maybe because Dean's been acting so…._

"Dean?" he calls before rolling over to face Dean.

"Hmmm-wha? I'm awake," Dean answers. Eyes still closed. Breathing still deep.

 _Wow… I guess we're both on autopilot…_ "Can't fool me," Sam retorts and chuckles to himself. _Everything's back to normal._

Sam finally rolls out of bed, grabs his jeans and meanders towards the head, kicking Dean's bed along the way.

"I'm up, I'm up…" Dean yells back, snuggling deeper into the covers.

It takes Sam a good ten minutes to emerge from the bathroom, kinda hoping to find a semi-conscious fully geared-up Dean. No such luck. "Oh, come on, man! I even banged the doors shut so you'll wake up!" Sam scoffs, kicking the bed again, "So lazy…"

"Can't he-help it… " Dean mumbles brokenly, finally sitting up and rubbing his arms, " _Shit!_ It's c-cold…"

"Hu?" Sam quirks an eyebrow as he checks the aircon. He didn't even notice it was turned on in the first place. He shuts if off and finally walks back, "Better?"

The older brother nods in that 'don't patronize me' way, but a win's still a win. The air circulation stops and it gets hot, quick. Sam's fanning his shirt, but Dean's finally mustering up his courage to do the unthinkable.

Dean's still shaking like a Chihuahua when he jumps out of bed. He's kinda proud of himself for the fact that he didn't need to get dressed, he even had his boots and jacket still on. Which doesn't exactly explain _why_ he's still shivering.

"Ready to g-go?" Dean says, already waltzing out the door like _he's_ been the one waiting for Sam.

The 'handsome' brother takes the wheel, brimming with confidence (once the Impala's heater is turned up full-blast) as they gun down the main road. "This wolf is going _DOWN!_ " he grins and takes the first turn easily, "Just like the last six!"

The 'smart' brother, has the good graces to _not_ remind Dean that the hairy skinwalker in Albuquerque doesn't count. He directs Dean to the park, not making too big a deal out of the fact that just six hours ago, Dean had cordoned a date with the lamppost there.

The Impala slows down once they take the last turn to Palmer Park. Dean shuts off the lights and pulls up alongside the curb.

"Okay, the best look-out is the big oak next to the monument," Sam says as he points on the map to the mark.

"What monument?" Dean says and tries to get a look out of the heater-induced fogged-up windshield.

"About twenty yards away from Lorelai the lamppost?" Sam says and clears his throat awkwardly when Dean just sends him a 'what the heck' look.

Sam opts for the Marling M-1895G rifle they 'borrowed' from the ranger office in Wharton State Forest in New Jersey, Dean gets the sawed-off Mossberg shotgun.

"Sure you don't wanna trade?" Sam says when he spots Dean almost dragging the shotgun on the ground when they're half-way to the look-out spot.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Dean says, already out of breath from their short walk.

Sam doesn't want to remind Dean that Marling is lighter than the Mossberg he's currently corpse-dragging. He keeps his lips shut and decides that rolling his eyes might be the safest outlet.

"I saw that," Dean growls and swings the Mossberg to rest on his shoulder.

"I'll take the lookout… " Sam snaps back and strides ahead, using his freakishly long legs to gain ground.

Dean just scoffs and decides to camou-in with the undergrowth in one of the ditches. He nestles into the soft ground and shuffles partly under the shrubbery. Well camouflaged, but a good quick-escape spot. He hisses under his breath when something sharp stabs him in the side, and adjusts his right leg so his hip won't have to be impaled by some jackass piece of rock or thorny-shit the entire night.

Sam lets sight catch the light of the lamppost on the Marling, letting the flash reflect momentarily to let Dean know he's ready.

And now… the wait.

And wait…

Keeping a good look-out on the park for potential.. well… monsters… Dean allows his mind to drift to his normal 'happy place' to keep his mind of the fact that he'll have to disinfect one side of his hip later tonight because whatever shrapnel he managed to shuffle across is now seriously starting to smart. Possibly more than the spike on a Wraith.

Well… Dean's divergence starts up easy _… some lyrics of Metallica, some Doctor Sexy episodes running through his mind… oh, Claire -the nurse- really needs to straighten out her priorities… and her blouse… if she gets caught again…._

A rustle in the grass brought Dean back to earth. He trains his sights on the place from where it came. _If it's the wind, I'm definitely losing my touch._ Another breeze lets the grass crackle again. _Shit._

For another half an hour of wait, he shuffles every few minutes to try and get himself more comfortable. Only, all the shuffling is making him hot, which makes him want to take off his jacket. But, he figures it's still better than the shivering he had an hour ago.

The full moon was rising slowly over the hills in the distance, casting an eerie glow over the park. Which kinda sucks, 'cause it also lights up the park like it's midday, making it painfully clear to Dean what a crappy hide-out he chose.

A single short vibration from his pocket let Dean know that he received a message. Probably Sam. Probably Sam telling him what a shitty camou-position he took. He checks the message and loves the fact that watching The Mentalist was paying off. ' _Move, I can see you from here'. … thanks Sasquatch, I didn't notice that myself…. Bitch…_

And now the question is… how?

And, to where?

It's not like he can just Chacha over to the next hide-out and take his position. If that furry butcher is out in the park, he was looking for some lunch. And some hunter-meat would make for fine dining.

He gets up as slowly as he can once he spots a good look-out near Sam's spot. He leaves the Mossberg on the ground so he can use his arms for leverage. That stupid piece of glass/rock/thorn really took it out of him. He keeps his breathing even and tempered, trying to keep the foggy breaths from becoming too prominent –giving away his position.

It's once his boot hits the ground, that he's suddenly falling forwards and face-plants on the ground. And even before either of them really registered that Dean's down, the talons of the werewolf are sinking into the back of Dean's leather jacket.

Sam sweeps the sight of the rifle over to Dean's position, breathing in sharply when he sees the gleam of thick wet fur and Dean on the ground beneath the monster.

He doesn't know if Dean's screaming at him or the wolf, all he knows is that being at such a brilliant fucking vantage point is the shittiest place to be when your brother is in trouble. He doesn't really climb down, as much as drop from one set of branches to the next. On the last, his feet aren't catlike enough and he falls to the ground, landing hard on his back. The rough impact had him contracting, an unintentional discharge from his rifle shocking him into stillness.

_Oh crap._

When he hears Dean suddenly start cursing, he _knows_ what that stray shot hit. _Sorry, dude._ He scrambles to his feet, lifting the rifle back to its position, scanning the place where he'd seen them last. He spots Dean, but the moonlight ranger was gone.

"It's gone-" Dean rasps, rolling over to lie on his back. He's clutching his side his movements jerky and uncoordinated, "You didn't need to g- _ah!_ give it a warn-NING s-shot…" he breathes painfully and grins once Sam's standing next to him, "Good shot-t though…"

" _Shit, shit, shit…. Dean!_ " Sam crouches by Dean's side, his hands hovering over the wound, " _I'm so sorry! … shit…_ "

"Language, Sam. If dad heard you right now…. _HE'D … ugh…_ " Dean groans and his fingers start to shake in shock, "he'd wash-sh your mouth ouTHG with soap….".

Sam helps Dean to his feet, freaking out even more when he feels the heat radiating off of him –which is _waaayyy_ too high to be from the gunshot.

Sam makes sure to keep a look-out for any other sounds in the park, just in case that damned _thing_ came back. His mouth is dry and it feels like his throat is in a vice. He knows it's the adrenalin, but when Dean can't stand on his own, he _knows_ the tightening in his chest isn't _just_ because of the adrenalin. He _knows_ it wasn't _just_ because of the werewolf that Dean had been flattened to the ground... something was _seriously wrong._

He manages to half-drag Dean to the Impala; he's trying to keep a firm grip on Dean, but also wanting to be gentle. Half the battle was also Dean's non-cooperation. Since, Dean didn't actually _feel_ the piece of metal in his side. In fact, he was entirely numb on that side.

"The hell is wr-Oong with you, man?" Dean growls, trying to wrestle himself back to the Mossberg, "We still got a werewo-wolf to hunt!"

"It's gone, Dean!" Sam counters and notices how Dean's clutching his side… and not where Sam had accidentally shot him.

"It's just in hiding, it'll be back- _AH!"_ Dean yelps when his foot catches on the curb.

It's not difficult to cram Dean into the Impala, since Dean's shaking so damned much that he can't even get his muscles to cooperate enough to fight back… it _is_ difficult though, is sitting in the driver's seat, trying to shut the door on the six-foot werewolf that just popped-in to bid them adieu.

Pulling on the handle, Sam's trying to keep the door as a barrier between _them_ and three-inch claws. _And teeth._ Shit. It's never _this_ fucking scary in a book. The saliva dripping off its teeth, the stench of its foul breath entering through the ever-growing gap between the door and the Impala. Sam, kicking against the interior of the Impala, trying to use it as a leverage. But, this thing is stronger than the last five bloody werewolves they hunted…

It snaps its jaws at the window. The thing's foggy breaths, saliva and teeth-marks stick to the window, drawing an unwilling preview of what's to come. Sam knows he's going to cave soon, he's arms are shaking so much… but then? Sam _knows_ Dean's out for the count. That he _HAS_ to be responsible this time. For both of them. That _HE_ has to be the big brother now and protect Dean for once.

_Okay, I let go… it'll fall backwards with the momentum… maybe I can reach the gun in time… it's in the back… dammit! Did I leave it on the seat or the floor…?_

But, the wolf wasn't waiting for an answer, with an almighty pull, it managed to wrench the door entirely out of Sam's grasp and swing it fully open. It smiled. It _fucking_ smiles as it opens its jaws ready to strike. _Dean…_

"Nobody screws with my brother!"

The wolf's lying –stunned- on the floor with a face full of lead and Sam was pulled out of the way… he was now lying between the driver and passenger seat, staring up at the smoking Taurus. The same Taurus Sam had shoved under his seat earlier on when Dean was threatening that bass-jockey -the same Taurus that Dean was now holding in his trembling grip.

Sam quickly uses his position to his advantage as he grabs the rifle from the floor, manoeuvres it through the space between the seats and plants four silver rounds into the wretched werewolf's head and heart. _Better safe than sorry… and a werewolf._

He stashes the rifle in the back again. "Thanks, man!" Sam's all grins when he turns back, only to be greeted by Dean sticking his head out of his own door and emptying his stomach on the tarmac.

Dean's still hunched over even once he stopped yelling at the carpet, but he doesn't look better. Actually, he looks worse. He's definitely running a fever, by the looks of the sweat now pouring down his face. The wound in his side was bleeding freely now, but Dean's still clutching his lower right-side again. "Um… Sa… SaHM…" Dean clears his throat and lowers himself deeper into the seat, "Can you- ARGH! ...ugh.. … take me… to …" he looks over to Sam, trying to say it without using words. 'cause hospitals aren't part of the Winchester way.

And, Sam understands that. And Sam knows when to get serious. Because Sam isn't a dumbass. And Sam knows that Dean's not a sissy.

.


	6. Sam's not freaking out

The streetlamps flash by faster and faster. Riverfalls doesn't have a hospital and the closest one is in Boston... maybe.

So, Sam doesn't try to slow down and avoid the possibility of blue bloods following them.

Not when Dean's sporting a pretty good fever, judging by the sweat running down his face and the strained expression on his face.

"Dean! You okay, man?" Sam doesn't take his eyes off the road though.

"Hmm… "

If Dean's foregoing their dad's advice of always answering the question, "Are you okay?". Yeah… then he's probably feeling shittier than he's letting show.

'How did I not see Dean's this sick?! Why didn't I pay more attention?!' Sam's thoughts constantly drifts back to that. He looks over to Dean for a second and instantly starts padding the floor with his right hand for a bottle of water.

At his feet. Behind his seat. ' _Got one!'_ the first thought in Sam's mind… which quickly followed with the realisation that there was a complete lack of water _in_ the water bottle. So, he kept searching. On the back seat. Behind Dean's seat. _Nothing._

'Where the hell did I leave it?!' Sam thinks angrily and feels around at Dean's feet for the bottle.

"Hey, baby-" Dean says in his I'm-sexy-and-I-know-it voice (the one that grosses Sam out), grins sleepily and burrows himself deeper in his seat.

Finally Sam's fingertips find the neck of the bottle, he checks to see if the road's clear ahead and quickly dives down to grab it.

Unfortunately, Dean's miraculously awake in that split second and all he's seeing is the Impala veering sideways, "WHAT THE – SAM!?" he bats Sam's head, "THE HELL?!"

Sam finally straightens up with the bottle of water in hand and straightens the car out, "What? I've got it under control!"

"You have WHAT under contr-" and before Dean could even finish that sentence, he slaps a hand over his mouth, " _Sick!_ "

And that was all Sam needs to hear before he veers to the side, applying the brakes as fast as he dares and quickly opens Dean's door for him.

Maybe it's the years and years of training with John, or maybe it's the countless hangovers Dean's experienced over the years… well… whatever it is, it's got him to keep the lunch down and only toss the cookies once the door's open and the road lines have come to a complete standstill.

And maybe, it's the years and years of training with Dean, or maybe it's the countless hangovers he had to help Dean recover from… but Sam firmly plugs his ears for the first round, to stop getting sick himself. A good trick, especially when you're trying to help your brother through the rest.

When the initial retching sounds recede, Sam reaches down to the side of his seat and pops the trunk. He slowly opens door and walks over to the back of the Impala.

Right now, Dean's just coughing… Sam knows there's just one more cough to – _there it is._ And, both of them know, Dean's good. He's done and he's good.

Sam doesn't even bother digging in the trunk for a washcloth, face-towel or anything like that; instead he grabs the first shirt he sees, dunks water on it and walks over to Dean's side.

"All clear," Dean's raspy voice calls out and motions Sam closer.

One step closer though from Sam though and Dean puts his hand to stop him. Another retching cough came from somewhere in Dean's small intestine that had Sam's own gag reflex reacting.

When Dean finally sits up again a second later, he shoots Sam a glare, ' _Are you kidding me?! I'm sick! You're not SUPPOSED to get sick too!_ ' and all of THAT managed to fit into one solidly placed hairy-eyeball from the older brother.

"Sorry," Sam mumbles and walks over to his brother and jams the tee on Dean's forehead. Sam's _really_ sorry though when the sudden impact made Dean double over and groan – _loudly._

'Should I call Bobby? … no… he'll probably be busy… Pastor Jim- _nooo_ … no… Who else?' Sam thinks frantically, wishing he'd get a premonition _or something_ that'll help him.

"Wher-where are we?" Dean finally mumbles, his muscles start twitching from holding the tee in place. He's not even trying to sit upright anymore, he's hunches over and even _that_ seems painful.

"Halfway to Bo-"

"-Jeez, Sam… This shirt smells like old nachos…"

Promising himself that he won't let Dean's moodiness get to him anymore, Sam continued, "Halfway to Boston," he pauses to let it sink in for a second, "Riverfalls doesn't have a hospital so I -"

"-Whoa, whow, ho – HOSPITAL? Why the hell are we going to a hospital?!" Dean growls and unfolds the tee to get one of the colder sides to his forehead, "When did you get sick? Why didn't you let me drive?"

…. Worst part is… Dean's not even being sarcastic.

"Are you kidding me?!" Sam snaps, noticing how Dean's flinching at the sound now, "Who did I just have to pull the car over for, huh? Whose backwash am I going to have to clean out of the Impala?!"

Dean's eyes widen and gasps, but before he whips around, Sam stops him by grabbing hold of Dean's head.

"Just kidding, _kidding_ …" Sam all grins, but when he has to lurch forwards to grab Dean under the armpits to stop him from face-planting… yeah, not the kind of lightening-the-mood Sam hoped for.

Dean's out cold this time as Sam manages to wrangle him back in the passenger seat and close the door –making sure to side-step the gross-yosity on the pavement as Sam makes his way back to the driver's seat.

Wetting the tee some more with the remainder of the water, he chucks the empty container in the trunk before shutting it.

_Two more hours to Boston. Just two more hours._

He climbs back in, slowly folding the tee to make sure the coldest side is on the outside and lowers it to Dean's forehead. He considers his options for second… driving down to Bobby's… calling Dad… calling an ambulance.

Finally, Sam just shrugs and slowly reclines Dean's chair, making sure the only thing that's keeping Dean's temp down from boiling isn't falling off.

Dean's still asleep though, curled into his right side and has his knees tucked up to his chin. He's not even snoring, it's just one of those deep sleeps Dean usually only gets when he's _just_ returned from a particularly grim hunt.

Sam couldn't help but see that as a good sign.

Twenty minutes later… "Ugh…Sam?" Dean's awake again.

"Yeah?"

"What hap-pened to the w-werewolf?" Dean mumbles and cringes suddenly, grabbing his side.

"You shot it," Sam says and smiles a bit to himself, "Totally saved my ass too."

The younger Winchester _was_ aiming for a one of those speeches that totally explains Dean's raging super-ego… but the effect was a bit dumbed down when all he got back was drawn out silence and Dean's deep breathing.

Every few minutes Sam keeps checking Dean's fever, and each time it's like a new plateau was reached. And, like all Winchesters, they all resort to the same thing when they're basically boiling from the inside out.

"Where are we going?" aka. the next round of questioning.

Sam knows it's the fever, so he adjusts the cloth and answers anyway, "To the hospital." And he has to consciously ease off the lead foot he's got on the Impala's accelerator.

"…. Did you… ugh… get sick or something?" Dean blinks his eyes for a second and yawns but the yawn is cut short with another cringe. Dean's white-knuckling his side, but he's still the damned older brother, so he asks, "Do you w-want me to drive?"

'That's the second time… psh, Yeah, like _you_ can drive when you're half asleep, raging a fever and probably need emergency surgery…' Sam thinks morbidly, but he answers differently, "No, thanks, man. You should get some sleep…"

"Jus…" another yawn breaks Dean's concentration and he's left blankly gaping for a minute, "What was I talking about?"

"You said you wanted to check out Palmer Park later tonight…" Sam tests the feverish waters of Dean's memory.

"Yeah… we'll go around eleven… you'll wake me up, right?" Dean says and tugs his jacket closer to him –ignoring the twigs and crap that still stuck to it from lying in the dirt earlier on.

"Yeah… promise," and Sam knows they're royally screwed. If the fever's messing up Dean's memories and time then it has to be over at least a hundred-and-two.

But stopping the Impala now isn't an option. He can't go rummaging through the trunk _hoping_ they packed a spare packet of aspirin or _something_ in the trunk, since the first-aid kit is still in the motel's bathroom. _Shit!_

Two hours later they finally pull up to Boston's entrance. The city still looking awake as it did in the morning. Flashing lights and billboard signs light up the roadways and detours as Sam starts searching for the hospital. 'Cause, a place like Boston HAS to have one, right?!

Doubts starts seeping in on the fifth spaghetti-junction when nothing they've passed even relates to medical care. Liquor store; nursery; church; butchery; café; café; car-dealers; air-conditioning repairs; church; adult shops. And no bloody – _shut up, don't say bloody! …. Hospitals._

Sam almost slams on the brakes when he takes a left and spots the words _HOSP-_ on the right…only, Dean won't appreciate being taken there and Sam's sure a hospice won't be able to handle this kind of emergency.

And then it hits Sam again. The only think he could possibly consider at this point is appendicitis. It's the only probably cause that has Dean doubled-over like this. And, even Sam had it as a kid, which meant that Dean was probably bound to get it sooner or later anyway.

THERE! Sam takes a sharp turn into the Boston Community Hospital and parks the chevy as close to the main doors as he could.

"Dean, Dean!" Sam slowly shakes Dean's shoulder, trying to rouse him, "Get up, man."

"Five more minutes…" Dean grumbles and, even in his sleep, gives a cough that suddenly turns into a dry heave.

Somehow, that Dean doesn't wake up from _that,_ freaks Sam out more than seeing Dean get sick.

Sam slides out of the Impala and starts praying as he rounds the corner, 'Please don't let Dean wake up yet' as he opens Dean's door and picks him up, out of the car.

The walk isn't far, but carrying Dean around? The only reason Sam's not yet completely red in the face is because Dean's sick and Sam's not about to make him worse by letting him _walk_ to the damned hospital. Letting Dean WALK to the very place he'd much rather die than go in? Yeah. Sam's not a cold-hearted ass.

The security guard at the door spots the pair and calls in the emergency team. The youngest brother didn't even notice the weight he was carrying until they were wheeling his brother off to the ICU. A weight. A dead weight. _Dead._

After splashing the ice-water he got from the cafeteria on his face, Sam's got a better hold of things. He runs the tap of the bathroom and splashes his face a few more times, trying to get himself to calm down.

'Dean's alright. He's in ICU right now. They'll take care of him.'

Only… Dean's _not_ alright. Not even close. _Wasn't it just over three months ago when Dean had that heart attack? Who says that reaper actually fully healed him? Who says this isn't BECAUSE of what that thing did to Dean?!_

"You alright there, son?"

"I'm fine, dad…" Sam answers automatically, not even recognising the words before they'd left his lips. When he looks up in the mirror to see the reflection, he blinks away the forming tears, _"…. Dad…?"_


	7. Sam's smarter than he looks

Without even turning around, Sam knows it's not Dad.

John would _never_ put a hand on his son's shoulder; ask him if he's alright. Nope, he's more likely to chew them out for not acting when the symptoms of Dean's condition first appeared. Chew them out about how important _being alert_ is to _staying alive._ Tell them just how badly they screwed-up this time.

But it never comes, and that's why Sam's not surprised when he turns and Bobby hauls him in for a hug.

" _Gosh_ … Bobby…" Sam sighs, taking in a shaky breath to calm himself down.

"Bobby called me a few nights ago," the older man says and smiles when Sam's suddenly shocked face pulls back to greet him, "I was practically around to corner… so I decided to drop in, Wakita is practically around the corner."

 _Dad's here. Dad's here… it's Dad. He's here. "_ Dad…? _"_ Sam mutters dumbfounded, holding onto John's shirt like the older man will run off at any second, "You… you're here?"

"Yeah," John smiles, "It's good to see you too."

Sam stares mouth-agape at his father. A strange guilt-ridden relief washing over him, the same one you experience when handing over an unbearable sacrifice to someone else to fulfil. "Dad… Dean…. Dad, _Dean's sick…"_

"I know," John says and leads Sam out the bathroom and towards the waiting area, "That's why I drove over."

"Is he allrig -"

"Winchester?" a nurse calls from the waiting area.

The pair trot forwards, a bit more enthusiastic than probably allowed by hospital personnel, "Yes?" they answer in-sync.

"Dean Winchester's being prepped for surgery, if you'd like to spend a few minutes with him before he goes in for the op?" the nurse says and motions for them to follow her.

The thirty-something brunette struts out towards the room, with only Sam managing to keep up with her pace.

Sam heads inside without hesitation, not even waiting for her instructions –which wrestled a proud smile from John… his stoic rule-following son finally being a rebel – _sort of_.

"Dean's in here, you'll have about fifteen minutes, okay?" she nods at John and leaves the man to it, as she heads off to the reception desk.

John hovers outside though, not sure about how Dean'll take his presence. Last time they spoke to each other was when he headed off to New Orleans. He'd meant to keep up contact, he really did. But, time flies when you're hunting shit.

"Dean?" Sam pats Dean's hand a few times before Dean's olive eyes finally crack open, "Hey, man…"

The heart monitor, that had been beeping pretty rapidly, suddenly started to slow down. A slow, but steady, beating rhythm setting in.

"I want a cheese burger…." Dean moans, but an involuntary gag-reflex at the mention of food suddenly kicks-in.

"I'll get you one as soon as we get out of here," Sam says and swallows dryly in anticipation of the news he's about to give to his brother, "I got a surprise for you…"

"Morphine drip?" Dean asks hopefully.

"Better…" Sam says and looks back at John.

With a deep breath, John finally walks into the room, trying his best to smile as naturally as he could –only, it came out as a stretched-out grimace. He hadn't seen his sons together in such a long time. He still remembers how badly their last time together had ended. Sam left. Dean stilled. John disappeared.

For a few moments, Dean just stared at his dad, blinking as if sleepy, " _Bobby…?"_ he says, confused by pain and the logic of the situation.

 _Bobby. Of course it'd be Bobby that Dean would think of first._ It struck another shard in John's heart to think that his oldest son would also expect Bobby to show up if he was sick or injured… because his own dad would never drop a hunt to do the same. "It's Dad…" John says, his throat suddenly feeling as if it were caught in a vice.

"Dad…" Dean repeats, the heart monitor's beeps suddenly rising rapidly, "Dad. Dad. _Dad –where've you been!? We've been looking everywhere- How did you know-_ "

"Calm down, Dean… " Sam pushes on Dean's chest, but he knows exactly what Dean's feeling. But, he's also painfully aware that he needs to keep Dean calm before the up-and-coming surgery.

"I'm sorry I didn't call," John says and sits on the very edge of Dean's bed, as if either of his boys would toss him off at any second.

Sam glares at this. Sam was fine to be away from his family, as long as it meant silence from John and little –but valuable- contact from Dean. … But for John to just cut off comms with Dean like that? Even when Dean did everything for their father? Even when Dean was the 'good son'? " _Sorry_ can't fix everything," he snaps under his breath.

"You got something to say to me?" John growls back, leaning forwards.

Dean suddenly yelps and grabs his side, pulling his knees to his chest and rolling over to his left side, " _Uuughh- Shit!_ " he murmurs through clenched teeth.

John's out the door for a nurse; Sam's running a couple of tissues under the tap for a make-shift washcloth; Dean's grinning at his own genius. _It worked! Peace-treaty begins!_

"Hey – _hey_ – here…" Sam says softly and lowers the wet clump of tissues on Dean's forehead, "Dad went to get the nurses."

"Heheh… _gotcha_ ," Dean mutters with a wink, his voice sounds bone-tired but still victorious.

" _You jerk!"_ Sam growls and seriously considers what the hospital's policy is about 'Punching your brother in the face'.

"At least you won't fight over me now," Dean grins and winces as a sharp pain shoots through his side.

"…It's bad, huh…" Sam knows it wasn't all an act, and that this situation was much more serious than he and John had been treating it. _They_ were fighting and Dean was suffering, only, this time it was physical suffering.

"…. Yeah," the fact that Dean doesn't play it down or lie worries Sam even more.

John strides back into the room, the occupant across from Dean reminds John of Pastor Jim, and _that_ reminds _him_ to be polite this time. "Sam, did you fill in the paper-"

-"Yes"

"And did you give the history-"

-"Yeah"

"And the credit-"

"Dad, I've done this before," Sam sends John a sniping glare, but Dean's nudge reminded _Sam_ to be a bit more accommodating, "… you did teach me …"

"… I think I should go-" John starts, but Dean suddenly shoots upright.

" _NO! Dad!"_ Dean's pleading for the first time, his eyes wide in his fear of being left alone again.

The sudden motion sent a shockwave of pain through the older brother's body and he quickly slaps a hand over his mouth and palms the area for a bin, container, _something._

Sam's quick to notice Dean's distress though, but the only available container is the kidney-bowl.

As soon as Sam shoves it under Dean's nose, the dry-heaves start. Dean's convinced it's the shape of the bowl that set him off, 'cause how gross is _looking_ at a kidney-look-a-like? It's fine if it's a remnant of a kidney from the zombie you just ghanked, but otherwise?

Then, as if a switch was thrown, the room burst into a flurry of action and then the cart starts wheeling off –with Dean on it- to the surgery ward.

_It'll be okay. He was brought in early. We caught it in time. The fever's rising. Fingernails are turning purple. Numbness in the feet. He's a healthy young man, he'll recover in no time. They're still not finished with the last surgery. Do you need to sit down? Just another ten minute wait._

John's got Sam under the shoulders and answers the questions the nurses and surgeon asks.

Dean's not really registering anything at the moment. He nods when John asks a question twice. He asks why Sam turned off the music. He flirts with the IV in his arm and sweet-talks the heart-monitor into giving him her number.

"You're going in now, Dean…" Sam chokes out when the Anaesthetist nods their way.

"You'll be here when I come out, right?" Dean grabs John's hand, 'cause he knows Sam'll be there for him anyway.

Sam's the only one who notices the heart-break in Dean's eyes when John doesn't answer right away. "I'll make sure only hot nurses are in there with you, man," Sam assures Dean with a forced-grin and waves when they wheel Dean away.

The younger brother's the one to make sure Bobby knows what's going on. He makes sure the cafeteria's whipping up a coffee-milkshake in the meantime. He fluffs up Dean's pillows. He checks the doors on the Impala. He makes sure John's got a black-eye by the time Dean comes back out.

But, afterward, they both sit in the chairs next to Dean's bed and wait for him to come out…

Only problem is, it's been three hours already…


	8. Sam's not a worrier... really

'They should've been done by now… ' John's the one pacing this time. He doesn't look stressed, but Sam knows that hands-in –the-pocket and head-down John _usually_ equals a very worried Pops. 'They should've been out and done…. Did Dean's appendix burst… did he get an infection from it?' John's got a thousand worst-case scenarios running through his mind by now.

"Um…. Maybe you should sit down," it's probably the nicest thing Sam's said to his dad since the guy arrived.

"Excuse me, miss, I just want to know about Dean Winchester's condition," John says, trying his best not to sound too demanding as he towers over the Receptionist desk. He hates the fact they used their real names on this little medical outing; he hates the fact his clothes still has the sulphur smell to it after his little outing in Wakita; he hates the fact his eye's going to be purple for the next week, but he hates not knowing what's happening to Dean more.

"Let me check," the elderly nurse says, clicking away on the mouse and checking the monitor, "He's still in the theatre…. Three hours?" she checks the stats again and frowns, "I'll be right back."

When a nurse says _that_ it usually means trouble.

John's not pacing. He's just walking, you know, warm-ups and all that stuff. Yeah. 'cause pacing's for Sam, the worrier. And John doesn't _do_ fretting… threatening, yes… but not fretting. He doesn't worry because Dean's the eldest son –that John _personally_ trained- and that's why Dean can pull through anything.

_… right?_

"Sir, he's still in the theatre, but maybe you should take a look," the nurse calls from down the hall, slowly approaching him.

John swallows hard, feeling the blood drain from his face, "Yes, Sam!" he barks at the youngest.

Sam, who had been sitting with his phone practically glued to his eyes -searching on the web for _some_ kind of reason why this operation was taking this long, stood up. "Is he okay?" Sam strides forwards and sends a nervous look the nurse's way.

Looks like all the pent-up aggression the boy had faded out in the wait.

"Sir, only the parent can-"

John shoots the woman a glare, "Where I go, Sam goes.". _Although that statement wasn't true just a year ago._

"Then you'll both have to-" the nurse starts, but Sam's upgraded his acting.

The youngest started tearing up, his face starting to twist into a pained expression, " _Please, I have to see my brother! He's always looked after me and -_ " he swallows hard and purses his lips together.

Sam closes the coming argument with the same puppy eyes that Mary used to use on John and _that_ made John wince inside... it _always_ worked on him.

_Five minutes later…_

"Wow, good job, son," John grins –despite the fact that they were halfway towards the ward now.

"What?" Sam snaps and looks over, his eyes still brimming with tears.

 _'Fuck'_ is all John can think, trying desperately to come up with a plausible, ' _I totally knew you weren't faking'_ \- consoling thing to say… but John, like Dean, is not too good with words… or excuses… so he just stays silent and keeps walking.

"In here," the nurse says and points to one of the doors, "You can't go inside the theatre room without scrubbing in, but the observation window is okay, I'll get one of the nurses in the room to come and speak to you."

It's John who opens the door and walks in, heading to the window without hesitation. And then, he just stands there, gaping.

Sam quickly heads over and looks through the window, trying to see what was going on –why John was freaking out. And soon enough, Sam stood there, in a perfect mirror image of his dad.

Inside the room was Dean, on a table. It looks like the operation was over, but the nurses and doctor still hovered around him, connecting and disconnecting tubes; activating the breathing machine; adjusting the drip on the IV.

Dean looks exhausted with slow and laborious chest movements coming in, his skin was pale and it looked like he was running a fever. He still looked as sick as he did three hours ago….

"You're his brother, right?" a nurse from right behind them says, causing both Winchesters to jump.

"Yes," Sam answers, finally turning around, "What's going on?"

"Well, the operation went fine, we got the appendix out in time," she starts.

"That's good, I was worried that-"

"But, we can't stabilize him," the nurse interrupts and tosses her gloves in the biochemical disposal can, "At first we thought we might've nicked an artery or _something,_ but nothing else was damaged or anything. We did a couple of x-rays and CAT-scans just to be sure… he does have three fractures on his lower ribs – did either of you know that?"

Sam knows Dean probably got those fractures when the three-hundred pound werewolf _literally_ jumped him, but decides to leave out those little details, "No…?"

"Well, those areas don't show any internal bleeding, so it's not the fractured ribs that're causing this condition…" the nurse says.

"Wait, then what _is_ causing it?" it's John this time, he looks even paler than Dean is.

"We don't know," the nurse says earnestly and nods towards the room, "We're taking blood samples now, to check if it's a virus or something else…. I'll call you as soon as we get the results in."

She pauses at the door and smiles, "Don't worry, Mr. Winchester, we'll take care of him," she holds out her nametag and nods, "I'm Alicia de Sousa, I'll come by the waiting room as soon as anything changes."

"You stupidity won't change," John growls impatiently and glares daggers at the woman's head as she exits the prep room.

"Dad?"

"You didn't bring my journal with you, did you?" John says and turns expectantly to Sam.

"I'm _sorry,_ the fact that my brother was _dying_ a few hours ago _might_ have distracted me," Sam snaps and crosses his arms.

"Watch the sass," John retorts and runs a hand over his face, "Allright.. well… Strigoi… was it silver or bronze…" and with that, John starts pacing. Again.

Up down, up down.

"…dad?"

"Tell me you noticed Dean's condition is linked to hunting?"

"The family business?"

"Only Dean calls it _that._ "


	9. John's not Sam

John's on the phone again. This time it's some vampire hunter in Illinois.

Sam's trying his best not to let his personal feelings get in the way and see this whole situation objectively. But, when you're watching how unsteadily the heart-machine keeps beeping… how his blood pressure seems to see-saw on some invisible wave… it's hard to keep your personal feelings detached.

When a weight suddenly lands on Sam's shoulder, it's unfortunate that John had to witness his son jumping out of his skin. The young Winchester quickly whirls around and tries his best to catch his breath and to smile at the same time, "Nurse de Sousa… "

"I'll call you back, Eugene," John hangs up the call and walks a bit closer, "Is he better?"

"We have to take him off the Anaesthesia, which will wake Dean up… but we're going to keep him mildly sedated and see how it goes… if it doesn't improve by the hour, we'll try a different route…" the woman replies, but she doesn't seem too enthusiastic about this approach.

John just stares impassively at the whole situation. Not a fleck of worry on him – in Sam's opinion.

"Like I said, he will be sedated, and we'll keep him on some pain medication, of course… we're going to transfer him to the ICU," Alicia says and nods towards John, "Mr. Winchester… Do you have any questions?"

"Will he be in a lot of pain?" John asks, the fleeting moment of him biting his lip in nervousness doesn't escape Sam's notice though.

"He'll probably feel better for pain, partly for the medication and partly for the fact that his appendix was removed successfully… but he'll be dizzy because of the fluctuation of blood pressure…" she says and purses her lips for a moment before nodding and turning towards Sam, "Oh… the nurse on duty told me that Dean reacted well to you being there… he seems to stay calmer for longer, so if it's possible, could you stay with your brother for as long as possible?"

Sam nods sheepishly, "Sure…?"

And that's how, twenty minutes later, Dean's stacked in a private ward and looking bleary-eyed at Sam and John. "What time is it?" he says, his eyes blinking one at a time.

"It's 4:11 am, Dean," John says after checking his watch.

"Hey Sam…" Dean yawns loudly and snorted, "Wow… you got good at your Dad-impersonation… do Ellen next!"

"Dean, it's Dad," John says and has to stop himself from reaching out to hold Dean's hand, "Hey, bud… how're you feeling?".

"No, that's still Dad… try Ash, that might be easier… heeheheh," Dean says and shifts in the bed to find a more comfortable position. He pauses for a minute, then jostles himself as if he just remembered that he didn't finish his sentence, "Ash, Sam… _Assssh_ … and not the one from Pokémon either…. Heheh"

Sam snorts and can't help but feel a bit of pride. At least Dean _knows_ that his brother will be there for him, no matter what.

Dean blinks a few times with a blank look on his face, then smiles, "Hey... what time is it?"

"It's 4: 12 am, Dean," Sam answers this time, since John's got his head tilted and trying to figure out whether or not Dean's just being a smartass or if he's really just loopy.

"Hey, Sam... can we rent Happy Gilmore again?" Dean mumbles and shuffles deeper into the sheets, falling right asleep again.

"How much morphine did they give him?" John looks accusingly at Sam –as if Sam had _anything_ to do with it.

Sam shrugged, "I don't know…. But they did say they put him on a sedative too… so…" as if that little bit of information solved the whole problem.

"Look, I've got to make a call, take care of him," John says and waits until Sam nods before taking his leave.

One thousand… two thousand… Sam counts in his mind and smirks when he got to 'three' and he could hear John's footsteps finally disappearing down the hall –as if their father had expected the brothers to coerce as soon as he was out of the room.

Which is not far from the truth, by the way.

"Dean, Dean!" Sam pinches Dean's arm, "Stop kidding around, man!"

"Mmmmm hmm…" Dean mumbles irritably, trying to rub his right arm with his left, but ends up batting it instead- the Anaesthesia not completely worn off enough to allow Dean full body coordination.

"Are you faking it?" Sam growls dangerously and holds on to the rail of the hospital bed in order to lean over. He's kind of expecting Dean to pop open his eyes and then wink and let him know that he was, inf act alright... but nothing comes. So, Sam sighs and rubs his head, "I'd feel much better if you were just faking…." He muses to himself.

"It's Sam, right?" Alicia's voice was heard from the door.

Sam bolts upright, nods and steps to the side, just in case the nurse wanted to do a once-over.

"How's he doing?" the woman asks and check the charts hanging on the ledge of the bed, "Did he wake up yet?"

"A few minutes ago… but he's.. still out of it…" Sam sends a worried glace Dean's way, "Is that normal?"

"Yes," the woman replies offhandedly and walks closer to Dean's side and takes his wrist in hand, "You must be pretty close…"

The machine at Dean's side suddenly starts beeping.

Sam scans it over, watching the blood pressure count drop. He's not sure when a drop starts to become dangerous, and he's not sure if he should be freaking out just yet or just keep calm.

"Still?" Alicia says with a professionally-restrained frown. She releases Dean's wrist and walks to the foot of the bed and waves her hand in the air to get Sam's attention, "I'll check in on him again in fifteen minutes, alright?"

"Thanks…" Sam replies and turns his attention back to Dean.

He didn't get it. Strugoi. That's what his father had said. But it didn't make sense to Sam, at all. Strugoi wasn't in the journal, otherwise either Sam would've SEEN it at some point… or Dean would've mentioned it… right? And besides, Strugoi in _Boston?_ Wasn't that a Romanian-local supernatural?

"Dean, wake up," Sam taps Dean's cheek and quickly asks his burning question, "Are Strugoi in dad's journal?". 'Cause if they are, Sam'll feel guilty for NOT bringing their Dad's Journal along. If they are, then the one place where they'd be sure to find an answer as to how to kill it... is sitting in the motel almost three hours away.

"Hmmm mmm…" Dean shakes his head lazily and licks his lips, "Is ther… water?"

Sam's satisfied with the lethargic answer and walks to the bedside cabinet, grabs the water jug and glass, pours some water in a glass for Dean. Turns out, by the time he turns back, Dean's asleep.

He takes a seat on the edge of Dean's bed, but doesn't try to wake him up again. Sam doesn't have the energy at the moment. How many weeks since they last properly slept? Either of them? And for the past three nights it's been a miserable nightmare. And it's actually quite comfy on the hospital bed. Just sitting there. Long legs lazing on the chair. Resting his elbow on his knee and head on his hand.

A drift of cool breeze. Just a slow time warp against the rush of the past few days. Calm and serene and all the things a hunter can never be.

"Sam?" it's a whisper but it still causes Sam to reflexively tense his entire body into an entirely alert state. "Calm down, kiddo…" John's face comes into focus and he offers a small smile, "But it's time to get up, we've got some work to do."

Sam bites back a groan and gets up.

John softly walks over to Dean's side, takes one last stretch of a look down the hall for any hospital staff and finally retrieves a Glock from the back of his jeans, "Take this," he hands Dean the gun, and helps Dean to slide it under the sheet along with the rest of his arm. Dean's attention seems to weave in and out along with his consciousness. Which is not a good idea, considering the Winchester Code of: Shoot first ask questions later.

"Okay, Dean, you need to keep it together, bud… the Strugoi is attacking you and four other patients in the hospital and you're spread out. We're going to try and nail this thing, but you have to be -" John taps Dean's cheeks lightly and that's enough to wake his son up again, "awake for this… you got it?"

"Yes, sir," it's so automatic that Dean's eyes are still closed.

John finally turns to Sam and hands his youngest the sawed-off, "Sam… Dean's out…"

Sam pursed his lips and tucked the shotgun under the spare blanket on the chair for the moment, "More like out of his mind…"

To prove this point, Dean's only looking at them through one eye, somehow managing to keep the other closed. 'Just resting my eye' is probably the comment Dean's got on tap to say as soon as they ask. If Dean's even lucid enough to think of being a smartass at this point.

"I'll see what I can do to contain this thing…" John ushers Sam closer to the door to get them out of earshot of the older brother, "but this thing… it's definitely got a sweet tooth for Dean, so don't just stand out here and update your facebook status. Got that?"

"You know about facebook?"

"I know about myspace too," and John gives Sam a superior look, to which Sam can only smile -for the first time since he was a kid.

"Right… I'll keep watch" and for the first time -in seemingly years- Sam's the obedient soldier and big brother. And, this time, he actually doesn't mind.


	10. Being a Winchester isn't for sissies

It's not thirty minutes later, before Sam starts yawning. Like _YAWNING._ He's sucking in half his bodyweight in oxygen and he tries his best to keep his eyes from drooping. _Keep watch._

And that's what kept him going. For another fifteen minutes. Lookie left, lookie right. Nothing. Dean seemed to be stable and Sam starts wondering again. Because Sam's brain is the only part of his body still remotely active. Sam's brain starts wondering if DAD wasn't just a TAD paranoid –like usual. Sam's brain starts wondering if Dean's fluctuations were normal considering the werewolf attacks, stress, gunshot and broken ribs on top of the appendicitis. Sam's brain starts to think, "Dude, I could go for a cheeseburger"

He peers inside Dean's room again. All's stable and well. Dean was sleeping soundly for the first time in a week and didn't even seem to be having any nightmares. He was even curled on his side, which was an improvement over the sleep-in-one-position-all-night mode he'd been in for a while now.

Dean's okay.

Sam's brain's got to thinking: Call Dad. Get Cheeseburger. Get sleep.

Sam sighs tiredly and stares blankly at his phone for a second before remembering what he actually unlocked his phone for. He scrolls down and finally clicks on John's number. He waits for a second and then lifts the phone to his ear.

One ring.

Two rings.

"Didn't I tell you that IM-ing your boyfriends in Standford is off the table until we snuffed out the Stugoi?" John's voice suddenly sounds off right next to Sam's ear.

Sam blinks at the phone, looks over to his dad and realised he's still on the line. He ends the call and drops the phone in his pocket, "Dad… um… "

"I know… I expected the thing to strike again. Sun'll rise in less than two hours… Best bet: the thing went into hiding," John rubs absently over his black-bruised eye and winches on contact, "We might as well get dinner… breakfast… "

"Let's go with _dinner,_ I don't want to say it's breakfast if I hadn't slept yet," Sam says with a lopsided smile and walks over to Dean's bed along with their father.

John lifts the top sheet for a moment and softly takes the Glock from Dean's relaxed grip. John tucks it away at the back of his jeans and covers it with his jacket. He was proud that Dean managed to stay awake enough to keep the Glock on-hand, and not just lying on the bed forgotten while he slept… but, all was well in the land of the Winchesters now and there'd be no sense in a lovely little nurse discovering a 9 mil with one of her patients. Nope. That'd mean some Blue Bloods on the scene and John would rather NOT move Dean anywhere unless it was a Code Red.

The older Winchester's still fully asleep, not even feverish anymore. He really seemed to have made some sort of miracle recovery in the short while.

So, the _awake_ pair of hunters head out of the recovery room and heads down to the vending machine at the end of the hall. It wasn't really agreed upon, in fact, both of them desperately wanted something warm and yummy… not vending machine's cold and crunchy to eat. But neither is willing to opt out on this mission, just in case either was wrong.

Sam grabs a pack of dried fruit and a can of lemonade. John goes for some fried pork rind crisps and one of those drinks that apparently gives you _wings –_ the slogan freaked a sleepy Sam out when he saw it. Poor kid, _WILD imagination_ when he's tired.

"So… demon hunt in Wakita…?" Sam finally wrestles out, praying that the non-present Dean would appreciate the effort.

"Yep…"

_Not exactly a conversationalist._

"You got it?" Sam tries again, waits patiently for a more concise answer.

"Sure did…"

 _Fuck it._ The youngest shoves a handful of dried apricots in his mouth to stop himself from being an 'ungrateful brat' again. He smiles obscenely when John finally looks over.

John grimaces at the apricot-covered smile and reminds himself that Sam was always a bit more goofy and emotional when he was tired. Dean was the complainer and got argumentative. He mightn't have always been there, but that didn't mean he didn't know his boys well.

"Why don't you lie down, I'll keep watch?" John suggests and pats his knee, "I'll wake you up when it's light…"

Sam stares affronted at John's knee and snorts. He shuffles himself lower in his own chair and tucks his chin down into his crossed arms, "Thanks," he says and does a short Zumba-session on his chair to get himself comfortable.

It makes John laugh.

And, just as Sam's head gives the first nod, a loud clang suddenly resounds from down the hall. It takes a split-second for Sam to react, but John's up and running towards the door. Sam's quick to follow and they both burst into Dean's room at the same time.

The bedpan was lying on the floor, a huge dent on the side and Doctor de Sousa was lying on the floor, a pool of blood forming around her head.

The pair of hunters look up, expecting the Strugoi to be standing there… but it's only a twitchy Dean, eyes wide and his hands trembling.

"Did you see that fugly thing?! I think it's a vampire or... _something.._ " Dean yells and points to Alicia. He lifts up his bedsheet, inadvertedly flashing the unsuspecting family members in the process, "What the hell happened to my gun!"

"You're on _meds_! You shouldn't _have_ something like that with you anyway! AND this is why! You threw a bedpan at a nurse! _She'll be lucky if she's alive_!" Sam yells back. He quickly bends down and checks for a pulse. _Shit, we just killed a nurse. We are so dead!_

Sam KNOWS that morphine and aneasthesia always gets Dean to do some loopy stunts... and he KNOWS Dean's brain had GOT to be fried after everything that's happened... but this?!

"I _had_ to throw the friggen' _bedpan!_ SOMEONE took my Glock!" Dean counters, he clenches his fists to stop his fingers from shaking so much. He clutches the side where the accidental friendly-firing incident with Sam hit him. It's obvious he's in pain, but at least it's not for the same reasons as to why they rushed to the Hospital in the first place...

... Now it's just the gunshot, fractured ribs and the fact a 300-pound Werewolf smushed him into the ground... yeah, Dean Winchester was fine and dandy.

" _Dean_ -" John starts, his voice stern and angry, but Dean's quick to stop him.

"Dad, you have to shoot… it's some kind of Shtriga or vampire or _something!_ " Dean yells in a panic, his face completely white and his voice shaking like he's got an internal quake.

"Dean, you almost killed one of the nurses who were taking care of you! She isn't one of the things we hunt, she's normal! And IF I can stop the bleeding, she'll STAY ALIVE!" Sam snaps, but just as he reaches forwards to stop the bleeding, a pair of large pearly whites sink into his neck. A quick, draining feeling that instantly made Sam feel like he was reeling, like he just completely lost control of his legs .

"DAD!" Dean yells out, then quickly diverts his attention back to Sam and picks up the water-vase on his bed stand and flings it at the _thing._

The misthrown glass that shatters against Sam's back is enough to get John out of his state. The glass slices through Sam's shirt, but also managed to slice the now ash-white-skinned Stugoi Alicia enough to elicit an almost banshee screech. John doesn't wait for the thing to recover; he retrieves his gun and finally nails the bitch right between the eyes.

The Strugoi de Sousa instantly turns to ashes and leaves –a pair of shoes, the coat, dress, nametag and wig behind- Sam covered in a thick coating of Stugoi death chalk. And what's worse, the WATER in the vase made the ash cling. To Sam's EVERYWHERE.

"Who the hell taught you to throw?!" Sam turns around, slowly-mind you- since he still felt like passing out from the Strugoi's bite.

"Who _the heeewllls_ -" was all Dean managed to say before collapsing back on the bed. Completely passed out. Not fainted. Because Winchesters don't do fainting. That shit's for sissies.


	11. Not a sissy, but maybe a Sleepwalker

"We need to bug out," John sticks his head out the door, glancing down the hallways. "I give it maybe fifteen minutes until the rounds are made."

"Fifteen?"

"Well, she did come to 'check' on Dean," John says and grimaces, "Or, to suck out his energy…"

Sam had to be really tired. He knows it, because John's last statement had him giggling. And Sam's mind only gets easily amused when he's tired. But, at least half his brain is still functioning because logic's telling him that they don't need to skedaddle just yet, "But, all that's left are ashes, so, it's not like they'll find her body or get all suspicious-"

"Yeah? And that werewolf you ghanked in that shitty town?" John says and pauses long enough for Sam to nod, "You didn't think of getting rid of that little piece of supernatural evidence, did you?"

"On the count of Dean collapsing from appendicitis and getting shot by me-" Sam stops short and sighs, he has the rest of the argument ready, but now's not the time, "… no, I didn't."

"So, it won't be long before a couple of Rookie Blues end up searching for a couple of guys who drive a Chevy Impala, heading north, and yea, the one guy was shot… How long do you figure APB will be out before this hospital reports a code red?" John snaps. He glares at Sam long enough for the point to sink in. He finally turns to Dean and taps him on the foot, "Come on, up and at 'em, little man."

Dean, on the other hand, isn't ignoring his Dad. Nope. He's just plain knocked out. Full on, passed out like a grizzly who made friends with one too many Jack Daniel's. He's even snoring. But rest might be just what he needs.. just not here, and not now.

"Get dressed, son," John pats Dean's foot again and starts to unzip the backpack he stashed under the bed. He grabs the winter sheet from the chair and crams it into the bag. Stealing? Yes. Necessary? Yes, because John'll be damned if he doesn't try to do his best for his sons. And right now, that means grabbing whatever'll make the road trip they're about to take more comfortable –for Dean.

Sam sighs when Dean doesn't react to John's call. Of course, he won't. He literally passed out from pain. He just had surgery, for Christmas sake! But, Sam's still under the cease-fire treaty he promised Dean… so, he holds off on verbally decapitating his dad –for now.

"Give me the Impala's keys, I'll his bunk ready," John orders.

It takes Sam a good minute of searching and finally finds the keys tucked in his jacket's inner-pocket. A precaution, because Sam knows Dean will kill him if he'd lose baby's keys. He hands them over.

Sam waits long enough for John to disappear out the door before pushing the door closed behind him. He trots over to Dean's bed and softly shakes Dean's shoulder, "Get dressed, Dean."

It was weird. Sam's seen this before, but it's still weird.

Dean, eyes half-lidded and blank, takes off his shirt and exchanges it for the one Sam pushes into his hands. He shuffles to the side until his legs dangle off the bed, with the help of Sam manages to get dressed in his jeans as well. He's standing now, he finished buttoning up his jeans, but he's not doing anything else. It really looks like he's in a trance. Or maybe, sleepwalking. Maybe he was.

Sam foregoes the boots and helps Dean slip on a couple of hospital-issue slippers for the walk to the Impala.

A quick check of the room, under the pillows, in the drawers, and Sam's sure he gathered everything. He looks over to Dean, who's still standing in the exact same spot where Sam put him last…. Only, he's sleeping. Head down, drool eliciting, sleeping. It makes Sam yawn.

"What did I say about goofing off?" John choses that moment to walk in.

It hits the youngest Winchester that John's possibly the only one who _always_ manages to catch Sam doing something weird or always just at the wrong moment. Yes, Dean does get him a couple of times, but those are always on purpose –like Dean stakes him out or something. But with John, it's like John's a magnet to Sam's awkward moments. It makes Sam sigh –which accidently mutates into another sigh.

"Do I need to drive?" John says and takes hold of Sam's arm, "I'd rather not have to pick you two up out of a ditch because you decided to get forty winks behind the wheel…"

"No, I'm okay," Sam nods towards Dean, "It's him I'm worried about…"

"I have a friend who lives right outside the October Mountain Forest, a few miles away from Pittsfield," John says and frowns when Sam starts to giggle again. _That boy definitely needs some rest._ "We need to avoid the highways… so the drive will take longer… about four hours… will you make it?"

"Well, I _have_ to go to the bathroom," Sam jokes and suddenly puts on a serious face when he spots John's scowl, "Yeah, I'm fine. I'll get a coffee… or something…"

"I'll get Dean ready-"

It suddenly hits Sam, "Dad! Your journal!" the shock has Sam's hands shaking, "We left it in the bed and breakfast…"

"What?"

"Our gear too… I didn't think… we just rushed to the hospital…" Sam sputters, suddenly almost hyperventilating. All sleepiness was effectively erased from his system.

"Relax… for how long did you rent the room?" John says and puts a hand on Sam's head. A placating gesture.

"Two weeks… but-"

"Then it's fine. It's not like in a motel where they turn-over the bedding each morning. Did you request housekeeping?" John asks with an enquiring look.

"No-no… I didn't…" Sam says and takes a deep breath, calming down.

"Alright, then there's nothing to worry about. We'll let things settle for a couple of days then you and me'll drive down and go pick up everything," John says and smiles awkwardly, he aimed for encouraging smile but it never seems to form on his face. "I think you definitely need that coffee now…"

"Thanks, D-Dad… umm… can I get you anything?" Sam says, suddenly feeling more relaxed.

"If you're not back in ten minutes, I'll leave your ass here," John snaps and heads over towards Dean.

Yep, that just drained all the warm fuzzies out of the youngest, but, at least he'll get his café latte. And an extra coffee just for Dean, in case he wakes up. And some cookies. Dean loves cookies. Pecan nuts and extra sugar-coating. He never admits it, but it's true.

When Sam finally makes it back to the Impala, John's already tucked Dean in the backseat. He had made a surprisingly comfy-looking cot for the guy to sleep in. A thick duvet works like a mattress. The winter sheet as a comforter. Pillows included. Damn.

"I'm good, huh?" John grins and elbows Sam.

"He sure is out of it… " Sam chews on his lip, worried.

"Oh no, he woke up long enough on our trip over here to flirt with the Information Kiosk…" John shrugs and shakes his head.

"He did the same thing with a lamppost last night…" Sam mutters and chuckles.

"Yeah?"

"Called 'her' Lorelai…"

"He always had a thing for that broad from Gilmore …" John says and nods, "At least he's over his Wonder Woman fantasy…"

"Nope, still has the pictures on his phone."

"Really?"

"You don't want to see it."

"Alright, let's hit the road, kid. Stay behind me, and don't let all that sweet-stuff go to your brain," John points to Sam's latte and cookie-bag.

"I'll try," comes the snark, but Sam's still smiling. He actually did miss his dad, after all.

John gets in his truck and waits until Sam's settled into the Impala before taking off. Sam trails behind, but once they were on the road, they were both driving in-sync it seemed.

Once or twice, Dean woke up and on the third try, Dean actually spoke, "Hey… I thought you were sleeping…" Dean says and spots the coffee in the cup-holder closest to him, "Aww… thanks, man…"

"No problem, just be careful it's still hot…," Sam grins when Dean takes a long sip of the coffee and sighs in appreciation. "Dad figured we'd whisk you out of that dump… he knows how much you hate hospitals…"

"I'd hope so, I spent enough time with him…" Dean says with a loving sigh as he lowers the coffee, "Ugh, best coffee… ever…"

Sam's not too far off his game though. Because he knows what's going to follow, "Put the coffee back in the cup-holder."

And, just like before, the autopilot of Dean's sleepy brain guides his hand –with cup- back to the starting position. And then, he's passed out again. He was sleeping so deeply, so instantly, that it was kind of shocking and a bit endearing at the same time.

A low buzzing sound lets Sam know that someone's calling him.

He answers it on speaker and waits.

"Sam? You did make sure that werewolf was dead… right?"

Sam frowns, "Um… yeah, why?"

"Well, then this is a good night for werewolf hunting-" followed by the screeching of brakes.


	12. Not a sissy, just a bit medicated

The Sierra Grande's brakes squeal as John swerves off to the side. And just as the tires hit the gravel on the side of the road, an almost mirror image of the wet fur freakshow from Riverfalls. And it's mad.

"Shit!" Sam curses, veering off to the right and jumping on the brakes before he realizes Dean's still in the back. Asleep. It's one of those moments when your drive to do the right thing totally messes up your natural instincts.

But, first and foremost, Sam's a hunter. Dean's a hunter. They'll deal.

"Dean, Dean, **_Dean!_** " Sam barks, swerving sideways for moment before jumping on the brakes again.

Dean, rolling forwards, braces himself against the front-seats, "W-hat –oUWW!" he grabs his sides and curses loudly, "What the hell?! Did you hit a squirrel?"

"It followed us!" Sam yells back and checks the mirrors. _Where IS it?!_

"…heh… told you it would _… Damn squirrels._.. " Dean chuckles and cringes when it sets his insides on fire.

"Dude, slide down to the floor, it'll see you…" Sam says and yanks up the parking brake, "And stay here!". Sam's suddenly in a panic though. Because the extra bullets are back in the B&B. Dean thinks squirrels are attacking. The Marling rifle is somewhere in the back and the Taurus is half-empty. Sam gets out anyway.

Shots are fired outside, followed by the most disturbing yelp.

"SAM!" Dean yells and just as Sam pokes his head back in the car and the Marley's under his nose –fully loaded, "It's ready, shoot it!"

Sam grabs the rifle, jumps out and runs to the hood, setting up for a shot.

John's inside his truck still, only, the windshield's out and the freaking four-inch claws are clawing at the roof and scrabbling at the insides. "Fuck off, furry!" John yells, followed by his Glock taking a chunk out of the rump.

The werewolf topples backward for a second, but it seems to be part jack-in-the-box. The wolf scrambles off the hood and rounds the truck.

"Dad, get down!" Sam yells, trains his site on the where he sees the flurry of black. Until something pulls on his leg. For a second he freaks, because, hey, werewolf bites are not exactly curable... _and how the heck did that thing manage to cover this entire distance so fast?!_ But Sam's head snaps down and he blinks in surprise when it's a hand.

Dean's hand.

 _"Heeyyy..._ where did I put my jacket, I'm cold..." Dean moans, and takes a shaky breath, "... Why is your door open?"

Sam bats Dean's hand away and trains his sight again, "Shit...". Because Mr. Wolly is nowhere in sight. "DAD! Where is it?!"

"Shhhh!" Dean growls and yawns, "I'm trying to _sleeppp_..."

"It retreated back into the woods," John yells back and pokes his head out the window, sweeping the Glock over the place he saw the thing last. He climbs out the windshield and over the hood, going slow over the broken glass.

"Covered!" Sam yells, letting John know he's safe to move. Sam keeps sweeping the area with his sight and keep his ears open to catch any sign of the creature.

John trots over to the Impala and sighs when he reaches them. He was pale, sweating and breathing hard... but completely unscathed, thank goodness.

The sun was slowly rising over the hills, casting the faintest glow over the area, which is probably the reason the werewolf gave up its hunt. Sun and werewolves don't mix, just like tequila and matches.

"Sun's rising. Chicken-shit werewolf's probably back in his cabin role-playing Brokeback Mountain," John says and grimaces when Sam sends him a surprised look, "What?"

"Nothing...?" Sam clears his throat, trying his best not to turn red and break into grins. He just couldn't stop the image of his dad watching a movie like that. And Sam couldn't even muster up the courage to ask why in the world John was watching that.

"Sammy... close the door... where's my pie?" Dean yells from the backseat, since he manages to wrangle the blankets and pillow back into place.

Sam sighs, Gyllenhaal and Ledger completely wiped from his mind, and stares at his brother for a second, "You'd think the Anesthetic wore off by now..."

"It did," John says and smiles apologetically, "I gave him something for the pain before we left..."

"Huh?"

"I knew getting back on the road so soon will screw him up, so I gave him something that would knock him out," John says and frowns when he sees Dean playing air-guitar in the back of the Chevy.

"Dad, you know how Dean gets on pain meds..." Sam frowns and involuntarily chuckles when Dean starts complaining about the beer that's not under the seat, "When he wakes up... he's hell to everyone around him... except himself!"

"Don't be such a chick," John says and pulls his face to a stoic front, "Now, keep me covered while I go salvage what's left of my truck."

"The sun's up, I'm sure the it's gone."

"That's what she said."

And that's how Sam gets reminded exactly where Dean gets his sass from. "Thanks for that, Dad..." Sam forces a smile. He picks up the Marley and makes sure to keep John in clear sight until he's reached the Sierra again.

"I think the Insurance companies would make a haul if they ever decide on adding Supernatural to their list of items-they-won't-pay-out-on," John calls across the road and points to his windshield, "Hey, have some cling-wrap and duct-tape?"

"Not really, we do have ... " Sam replies and walks over, "No, wait, we got rid of that..."

"Keep your inventory straight, son..." John yells back and motions Sam to join him. He grabs the one side of the windshield and waits for Sam to grab the other. They lift it over the hood and carry it to the back, they drop it in the back. "Third windshield this year..."

"Maybe you've got a point with the whole Supernatural Insurance thing," Sam says and finally smiles, "... hey, Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're here..." Sam says and shoves his hand in his pockets, rocking on his heels.

"Me too..." John says and shoves Sam shoulder with a grin and points to Dean -who was actually snoring out loud at the moment, "It's not often you see Dean's head off to Mars..."  
Sam chuckles and rubs his eyes, "Yeah.. uh..."

"Still tired, huh?" John says and pats Sam's shoulder, "Let's get going."

On his way to the Chevy, Sam suddenly pauses and turns back, "Hey, Dad... you didn't pack Somnil, did you?"

John shook his head, "Hey, you said it yourself, Dean doesn't react well to meds," and grins, "Have fun!"

Of course John would say that, he doesn't have to listen to Dean's alternating states of unconsciousness and talking to the Cherry Pie that's floating around his head.


	13. Not a sissy, just recovering... like a man

"John….?"

"Yeah?"

"Why the hell do you always end up here either shot, with somebody else shot or mauled halfway to hell?" Patrick frowns and slaps Dean's hand away from his side, "I'm not a Red Cross, you know."

John chuckles, pours another cup of coffee and hands it over to his friend, "Give me break, the kid just had surgery…"

"Yeah, tell me again how he got appendicitis, broke his ribs _and_ got shot by his own brother?" Patrick deadpanned and shook his head, "I thought you said you trained them."

"I thought I did…" John grimaced at the implication, "Don't say what you're about to say…"

"Hey, Dad, I'm packed…" Sam says as he walks in. He pauses at the door and clamps his mouth shut, "OH.. wow, that looks worse than yesterday…"

"That's because you didn't see it yesterday," Patrick says and dangles the bloody gauze in sight, "I've had to change his dressings twice now. It's gross and I can't eat for an hour afterwards!"

"Is it bad?" Sam tries his best not to let his gag-reflex kick-in as he comes closer for a better look.

The area was purple, with dark bruising over several parts of Dean's chest. It didn't look like a picture of health. "He's got some serious bruising… I had to redo a couple of the stitches on his side… completely redo the stitches of the gunshot… " Patrick rolls his neck and shrugs, "I gave him a cocktail mix of some anaesthesia and sedatives…"

Sam nods, "Good, he needs sleep…"

"You do too," John says and takes a long slurp of coffee.

"And you, Dad?"

"What about me!" Patrick chimes in and drops the scissors he'd been using on the stitches in the tray, "I was awake since you got here, getting you all sorted… getting-" he slapped Dean's chest (inadvertently causing an extremely sissy-sounding shriek to emit from the young hunter), " _Oh shit_ , sorry, man…"

"…ffff…" was all Dean manages to huff out, his face turning a scarlet red.

Patrick continues right where he left off, "getting you sorter and _this_ guy all patched up… the least you guys can do is make me lunch!" he snaps and looks at Sam expectantly… mostly because Patrick knows that John would never agree to making anything edible –at least not for anyone who is _not_ family.

"I want some beer…" Dean finally pipes up, he sounds shaky and tired, but he grins –eyes still closed though- and sighs, "and bring me pie…"

"Yeah… that sounds like plan!" John chuckles and pulls Sam with him, "There's a little café just a few miles from here… "

"Hey, no beer!" Patrick yells as they head out the door.

"Whiskey then!" John retorts and grabs the Impala's keys before any retorts come.

"It's a good theory, but contrary to popular Winchester-wisdom, whiskey does _not_ disinfect from the inside-out! I'm serious!" Patrick says as the pair of hunters head to the door.

Sam throws him a thumbs-up but John makes no such promises.

"I'm driving," the elder Winchester says when Sam makes a grab at the Impala's keys, "You're underage."

Sam glares at his father for a moment before following him out the door, "Dean doesn't like it when you over-rev the Impala… "

"I know"

"You should always let the engine idle for a couple of minutes when it's cold out…"

"Sam, I _owned_ the Impala before I _gave it_ to Dean."

"And Dean doesn't like it when you adjust the seat -"

"-I will leave you here!"

"But I need to go get Dean some pie-" and that was the last of the little Winchester exchange that was heard, the rest was drowned out by the Impala starting.

The engine roaring to life was enough to wake Dean up though, a little bit more thoroughly than the last rude awaking-slap. "Sam! SAMMY?"

"Relax, they're going to get you some snacks…" Patrick calls from across the room, holding a comforter in his arms.

"Who?"

"John and Sam, they're going to the café," Patrick replies and frowns when Dean doesn't look satisfied. "…. Uh… they won't be long? If that's what you're worried about."

Dean seems to be off in space until Patrick finally amended the statement, "Oh… right…"

"Come on," Patrick smiles and pokes Dean on the forehead, "Evacuate to the living room, can't have you lying on my dinner table all day."

"But I like your dinner table…" Dean grins and nuzzles the table with his cheek just for kicks.

"Hey, I didn't give you _that_ much drugs, knock it off," Patrick snaps and pulls Dean to a sitting position.

"Now _I'm so looonnneeelllyyy_ …" Dean says in a sing-song voice and chuckles.

Patrick stares at the young hunter for a moment before sighing, "If you move your ass and I'll bring you some M&M's…"

Dean's eyebrow pops up and he grins, "Well, if you put it _that way…_ "

"You are _definitely_ John's son…. So disturbing…" Patrick glares and pokes Dean again, "Move or no M&M's!"

"With peanuts?"

"Yes."

That got him moving. Patrick passes him a comforter and instructs him to lie down on the couch in the living room.

Naturally, Dean wraps said comforter around his neck and dramatically sweeps his new 'cape' like Batman, only to squeal in pain a moment later.

"Wow, _Mr. Wayne_ , you sound just like a little girl," Patrick says and waltzes off towards the kitchen.

Dean pouts and shuffles along the carpet and down the hallway until he finally takes a right to the living room. He doesn't quite manage to throw the comforter all the way over the couch –the tail end seems to be stubbornly stuck on the edge of the sofa- but he decides the effort just wasn't worth it. He wriggles himself up unto the couch and stuffs his head into the small gap between the armrest and the backrest. His feet are cold from the lack of comforter, but he doesn't particularly have enough energy to care right now.

He'll care once Sammy got him some pie. And his Dad brought the beer. Then he'll care. But for now, he's just trying to sleep.

.


	14. Definitely not a Sissy.

It's probably the longest night Sam Winchester has experienced since… well, last night.

Dean's snoring, the coughing, the wince and grumble that inevitably follows up with a moan. He's practically doped up. He's supposed to be swimming on a cloud of seventh heaven. Instead he's still in pain.

One very small, very small… miniscule part of Sam's mind has him waking up several times at night, just to check if Dean's still breathing. Considering everything that's happened…

The other, manly part of Sam, got him playing mother hen. He makes sure the check Dean's bandages, makes sure Dean takes his meds, makes sure Dean's got enough movies to watch just so that the guy won't go running around –or try to run around.

The whole ordeal had completely wiped out Dean's metabolism. He didn't really eat, slept a lot, slept some more.

Patrick was at least comforting in this respect, he had a whole medical explanation for every occurrence and placated both John's worries and Sam's fears. He seemed to also have a perchance for explaining most incidents in unnecessary gross in-depth detail that no Winchester on earth would want to hear, but at least it was comforting to know that Dean was recovering.

Slowly. But, he was recovering.

Sam finally drags himself out of bed sometime after the clock chimes a two. It never helps anyone to _pretend_ to be asleep when you can't even get your eyes to stay closed.

He makes himself some coffee, makes sure to double up on the caffeine. He makes one for Dean too, adds marshmallows in for a laugh. After balancing a small bowl filled with biscuits on the crook of his arm, he heads back to their shared room.

Or at least, shared by _choice_. There was another spare guestroom down the hall, but Sam couldn't handle that. Not being able to be there with Dean. It was usually the other way around.

"Hey," Sam says softly as he puts Dean's mug and the bowl of biscuits on Dean's side of the nightstand, "Midnight snack?"

Dean blinks blearily, clearly still haze from the medication, "What?"

Sam takes a seat on his own bed and rests against the headboard, "Snack run. You and me," Sam says and winks, "And scored you some walnut biscuits."

For some odd reason, the only time Dean _would EVER_ eat Walnuts was when he was sick. When he was ten, a week before he broke out in Measles, he would practically use every pitstop they make to grab a bag of those little suckers. When he was seventeen and wound up with a case of Bronchitis, it was practically the only thing he wanted to eat.

Sam never questioned it.

"Mmxxtss," is the best 'Thanks' Dean could manage from his doped-up-sleep state.

He sits up and starts munching away, sighing happily after the first bite.

That made Sam smile too. At least some things always stay the same.

After a while, a few biscuits and a nut-joke too many, Dean's nodding off and his coffee mug is slowly tilting a little too far for comfort.

Sam sits up and reaches over to Dean's mug. He gently takes it from his brother's grasp and places it on the nightstand. He eyes the bowl of walnut biscuits that Dean's cradling like a Teddy Bear and decides against trying to sneak it away from Dean's grip.

"Dean, don't fall asleep with those biscuits," Sam says.

"I'm not," Dean replies, sounding practically awake.

"I know you're sleeping. Just let me take the bowl," Sam states, only to receive a full-on Big Brother glare.

"No," Dean says and can't seem to keep his eyes open long enough to really make that little 'glare' work, "Just shhh…"

"If it breaks?"

"Fine," Dean says and slowly holds out the bowl to his brother, "Don't eat 'em."

"I won't."

"Promise?"

 _"I promise._ "

The answer seems to satisfy Dean, he yawns and slowly shuffles down into the comforter until only his head and tousled hair's sticking out.

Sam sets the bowl down on the nightstand, making sure to move them well away from Dean's arm reach. He finally starts to feel a bit sleepy too when he checks the time again. Past three.

It was time for Dean's pain meds and since Dean was still kind-of conscious, Sam pops out two of the little green ones that seem to help Dean with the pain.

Gently Sam rests his hand on Dean's shoulder, "Dude, you need another round?" he asks, not sure if he'll get a reply.

Dean groans and sits up slightly as he takes the meds, "Whatever," he says and downs them with the glass of water that Sam hands him, " _Don't eat my biscuits."_

Sam chalks it up to the meds, even though he knows for a fact that those pills take at least an hour to kick in, and finally smiles, "Promise I won't."

"Werewolves are such bitches," Dean angrily snaps and throws the comforter over himself, snuggling into the softness of the fabric with a smile, "G'night, Sammy."

"'Night, Dean."

And just like that, Dean's out like a light and all's right with the world again.

It takes him about three weeks to finally be able to walk around without being hunched over. Not that he _didn't_ make a fuss over it. It was like it was his mission in life to let them know. ' _Sammy, I can't reach the remote_ ' or ' _Sam, get me some pie_ ' or ' _I heard a foot massage is great for healing_ ' and he milks it with a grin.

But it sucked. It really sucked and you can't even take a leak without feeling like you're about to pass out. At this point he pretty much felt like a sissy, which just blows. He covers it up well enough, when he's not putting up a whiney act, it's obvious he's still in pain and the slightest twist or bend has him tensing up with a jolt of pain. Those are the times that John and Sam silently agreed to never comment on. They just do their best to preoccupy themselves as Dean carefully rises and for that slow breath of air Dean lets out before he's full of grins again.

But it passes, slowly but it passes. The pain meds lessens out until Dean's starts forgetting to take them and Patrick has to remind the guy to keep the meds on schedule. Not that Dean actually listened to the doc in the first place, unless he bribes him with a cold beer and some M&M's or pie.

It's embarrassing to think that Dean Winchester, man of action can be bought with pie. Creamy, cherry-filled pie with a just a tad crispy layer of dough that makes your mouth water. But, that's Dean for you.

He spends the last few days of recovery 'working on the Impala', which was a code-word for "I'm going taking a nap, so don't bother me".

And, later on, he really does do some work on the Impala, being able to finally get under the hood without groaning or sliding underneath without feeling like his spine's about to pop out of his tear-duct.

It pumps him up even more when Sam tells him that the next full moon was the next week and that Dad was going to stick around "Just for the hell of it". Let's face it, mushy sissy feelings aren't the Winchester way.

That's why, three days later, they finally head back to River Falls to kick this friggin' werewolf ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done :D   
> I wrote this about 8 years ago on fanfiction net, but reposted here. I hope you guys liked it! If you did, please drop me a comment down below :) ciao for now


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